


Undercurrents

by andveryginger



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, Hidden Depths, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-03-16 23:50:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 41,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3507245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andveryginger/pseuds/andveryginger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a stranger stumbles in and dies in the front parlor of her home, Phryne and Jack must unravel a mystery whose roots lay far in the past. (Post-2x13, "Murder Under the Mistletoe.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first venture into the Miss Fisher sandbox. I am not -- nor will I likely ever be -- Australian. Thankfully, Sassasam and Seldarius have kindly offered beta (and sometimes translation) services. Thank you so much, you two! Any mistakes you see now are my own.
> 
> Many thanks to the cast and crew of "Miss Fisher" for offering up such fun and inviting characters. Bring on series 3!

A stillness had settled over The Esplanade as Detective Inspector Jack Robinson made his way up to the house at 221B. An inky horizon hinted at the dark night to come, a cool breeze rustling through the shrubbery and flowers lining the path. The front light was still on, interior lights spilling shades of red, yellow, and orange through the stained glass onto the porch, beckoning him up the stairs and to the door. He rapped his knuckles solidly against the lacquered wood, then stood back to wait. A long, quiet moment followed before he heard soft footsteps on the tiled foyer, followed by the rattle of the ornate knob. He was not surprised when the door swung open to reveal Tobias Butler, chief of the household staff.

What did surprise him, however, was to see the ever-polished butler standing before him, clad not in his usual black suit and cravat, but civvies instead. The elder man gave a welcoming smile. “Ah, Inspector,” he said. “Do come in.”

“A pleasure, as always, Mister Butler,” Jack said with a nod, by way of greeting. Removing his hat, he stepped into the foyer.

The head of household staff returned the nod. “As always, Inspector. May I offer you a drink?”

At this, the inspector shook his head, eyes drifting past the man’s shoulders to the parlor. A small side table stood by the fireplace, two glasses and a decanter already waiting. “I think that will do nicely, Mister Butler.”

“Of course.” Mister Butler reached, taking the trench coat and hat. “Miss Fisher won’t be a moment. In the meantime, if there’s nothing else I can offer you, I believe I’ll take my leave for the evening.”

Jack cocked his head to the side, looking to Butler with a furrowed brow. “Leave?”

“Yes, sir. Wednesday, so I’m off to meet my brother-in-law for a few pints and a round or two of darts,” he replied. “I’m not terribly good, but I do keep trying.”

“Of course -- your night off.” Jack cleared his throat, fighting desperately to keep the amusement from his features. As he regarded the butler, he couldn’t help but think he saw a glint in the man’s eye as well. “Please don’t let me keep you.”

“Not at all.” He nodded. “Have a good evening, sir.”

“Good night, Mister Butler.”

The inspector watched as Mister Butler disappeared into the darkness of the dining room, shaking his head. He was just turning his attention to the whiskey decanter when he heard the lady herself behind him: “I was beginning to wonder if you were going to make it.”

Jack did not turn at first, pouring one glass, then another of the fine amber liquid. When he did turn, he found The Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher standing in the door frame of the parlor. He swallowed at her attire -- a lounging ensemble in dark blue silk satin -- his Adam’s apple bobbing above his four-in-hand knot with the effort. “I _did_ telephone to say I was going to be late,” he replied.

A wry grin curved her lips, high cheekbones on full display as she took several steps closer and accepted the tumbler of whiskey he offered. The light scent of lavender enveloped him, a warm rush crawling up the back of his neck. “It seems your involvement in my cases generates quite a bit more paperwork. I wonder why that is, exactly?”

“Because I can be such a veritable _font_ of information?” Phryne watched him over the rim of her glass as she took a sip, eyes alight. “And I know you want all the facts _we_ discover on our cases well-documented.”

Amusement flickered across his features, reaching his eyes more than it curved his lips. “ _Our_ cases?” One step further diminished the gap between them. He could feel the heat radiating off her, nostrils taking in another hint of lavender. Her face tilted upward, clean, make-up free features aglow in the yellow light, a suggestion of pink across her cheeks. It was the most relaxed and beautiful he had seen her since the night of the _Pandarus_ incident. “Does that mean you’ll start doing your share of the paperwork, Miss Fisher?”

Her free hand came to rest on his lapel, fingers lightly brushing the wool. “I’m quite sure, Jack, that my typing skills would be of no use to either of us.”

Heat continued up his collar, surging through him like a shot. “Then I guess Collins and I will just have to keep suffering.”

“Yes, but at least Collins shows up for his appointments on time. He and Dot left for the pictures almost an hour ago.” She tilted her head, regarding him with a sidelong expression.

He allowed his own lips to twitch into a mischievous grin. “I know. I made sure to send him on his way.”

“You sent Hugh to whisk Dot out for an evening on the town? Why, Inspector, one would think you wanted to be alone!”

“ _You_ were the one who asked _me_ to dinner tonight, Miss Fisher -- on Mister Butler’s night off.” His voice had dropped an octave, well aware of the undercurrents swirling between them.

The satin of Phryne’s wide-leg pants rustled against his well-creased trouser leg. “I thought a quiet, simple meal in the kitchen would be nice. Mister B even made one your favorites – a gorgeous _gratin_.” She paused, setting aside first her glass, then his. Her voice was just above a whisper as she leaned toward him. “As to what we do for dessert…”

Every other time they had been this close in the passing months, teetering on the edge of a very dangerous precipice, an interruption had brought everything to a screeching halt. As Jack lowered his lips toward hers, he hoped this evening would be different.

…and then was sorely disappointed as the front bell echoed through the otherwise silent entry hall.

A low grumble rumbled through him, sighing as he made to step back. Even as he did, Phryne pinched his lapels, effectively preventing him from moving. “Not this time,” she said, shaking her head.

Jack allowed his hands to rest on her hips, the unrestricted warmth radiating through the silk confirming what he already suspected: She wore no undergarments beneath. He suddenly found it difficult to breathe. “It-it could be a client.”

Her fingers smoothed through the closely-cropped hair at the nape of his neck. “At this point, I wouldn’t care if it were the king… and I’m hardly dressed for visitors.“ She paused, her lips quirking into an impish grin. She knew he was in on her secret. “Well, _other_ visitors.”

The bell sounded again.

“Phryne – just answer the door.”

Heaving a sigh, Phryne released her grip on his lapels, smoothing the rumpled wool with her fingers as she stepped back. Before she could reach the door, the bell sounded again. Unlike the previous times, however, it did not stop, as though the guest were leaning on the button.

“This better be worth it,” the female detective muttered as she grabbed the doorknob. “If it’s Aunt P, I _won’t_ be held responsible for my actions.”

A complete stranger stood on her doorstep. Of a shorter build, stocky through the shoulders, he wore his hair shaven, the visible growth pattern indicating he’d soon be bald enough without the razor’s assistance. His chin was lowered, blue eyes wide and questioning; he leaned heavily against the door frame as sweat spilled over his cheeks and soaked his collar. Each breath was obviously a struggle. “Miss Fisher?” he rasped.

Phryne watched his brow furrow briefly, wincing.  Her own creased in concern, immediately recognizing that the gentleman was in distress. “I think perhaps you should come in. Jack! Your assistance would be appreciated!”

Jack noted the edge of panic to her voice. Charging forward, he took the man’s arm over his head and bracing it across his shoulders. “Easy,” he said. His voice was strained with the effort. They’d made the turn to the parlor before the stranger’s legs collapsed, almost taking Jack down with him. Jack instead eased him to the tiled floor and Phryne knelt beside him. The questioning blue eyes stared blankly at the ceiling; two fingers at his neck told her he was gone.

The inspector rubbed his hand over his face. “Know him?”

Miss Fisher shook her head. “Not at all.” Frowning, she reached and gently closed the fallen man’s eyelids. She watched as Jack flipped back the lapels of his jacket, opening his vest, checking for wounds. He found none. Phryne then took a moment to inventory the pockets: A stack of business cards from one, a photograph from the other.

“Leslie Pemberton, Investigator,” Jack read the card aloud. “Judging by the fat stack here, I’d say this was Mister Pemberton.”

“Probably a safe conclusion.” Phryne shifted the photograph for a better view: A man and woman, clad in late Victorian clothing and holding hands, standing in what was obviously a studio. Recognition prickled across her mind, her brow furrowing. “I…I know who this is.”

The inspector frowned, craning his neck to get a better view of the image himself. He didn’t like the tone that had crept into her voice, nor the way her cheeks drained of their previous color. “You do?”

“That’s Aunt Prudence,” she answered. The furrow in her brow deepened. “But _that_ isn’t Uncle Edward.”

“I’d better go telephone this in.” Jack sighed. “I guess dinner – and dessert – will have to wait.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Sassasam and Seldarius for beta services. As with the previous chapter, any mistakes you see now are my own.

A little more than an hour later, Constable Clifton Bowen stood in the parlor, regarding the senior detective inspector with his pencil poised over his moleskine notebook. He would, of course, be turning the investigation over to Robinson and Constable Collins in the morning. For now, however, Bowen was the responding officer, and it was necessary to collect some basic information for the report he would submit before the end of his shift. He cleared his throat. “So you’d just arrived and Miss Fisher was pouring you a drink when the front bell rang, sir?”

Jack, leaning heavily on the mantle, put his right hand on his hip and nodded to the junior officer. “Miss Fisher set aside our drinks, then went to answer the door.”

“It rang twice -- no, three times in quick succession before I made it to answer. He was apparently _very_ impatient.” Phryne mirrored his stance, clad now in her black trousers and matching blouse. As he had phoned the station house, she had taken the time to change into something more appropriate for the confusion that followed a dead body. “When I opened it, he asked for me -- by name. It quickly became clear he needed assistance. I called Ja-- Detective Inspector Robinson over for help.”

“No sooner than I’d gotten him steadied across my shoulders, he collapsed. Miss Fisher checked him for a pulse and found none; I called it in.”

Bowen scribbled for another moment, brow furrowed in concentration. “You used the phone in the hall?”

Again, Jack nodded. “I did. The body remained in custody until you arrived with the coroner.”

“We found a card on the body identifying him as Leslie Pemberton, a private investigator,” Phryne continued, “as well as a photograph that I believe Inspector Robinson will follow up on tomorrow.”

“I’ve already noted that neither of you recognized the man,” Bowen said. “And no further members of the household were involved?”

The inspector passed a glance to Miss Fisher. Though he knew the answer as well as she did, it wasn’t his place to respond. “No,” she replied at length. “My ward is currently visiting with a school friend, and the rest of my staff have the evening off.”

Bowen closed his notebook over his pencil, sliding them into a leather pouch at his waist, protected by his uniform tunic. “That should be everything I need for tonight.” He glanced to Miss Fisher, then back to his senior officer. “I’ll make sure the report is ready for you in the morning, sir.”

“Good job, Bowen. Thank you for your prompt response.”

“It’s all right, Inspector. Ten times more interesting than dealing with another drunk and disorderly.” The freckle-faced constable gave a smile. His eyes glanced down to the table beside him where two tumblers of whiskey sat unfinished. “I’ll just… leave you to your evening.”

Phryne rolled her eyes, exchanging a glance with Jack. “Come along, Constable; I’ll walk you out.”

“Miss? Oh, Miss! Are you all right?”

There was a slight note of panic in Dorothy Williams’ voice as she and her beau, Hugh Collins, charged in the front door, passing Constable Bowen on his way out. “We saw the coroner and the police vehicle and --”

Phryne held up a hand. “We’re fine, Dot,” she said, calmly. “We had a bit of an incident, and Constable Bowen was nice enough to come and bring the coroner.”

“We?” Collins frowned. Looking around, he spotted the coat and hat hanging on the stand by the door at exactly the same time as Dot: Inspector Robinson. “Ah.” Their supposition was confirmed when they entered the parlor and found the inspector still by the fireplace. He had, however, picked up his tumbler of whiskey and was watching it swirl around the bottom of the glass. “What happened, sir?”

A wry grin curved the inspector’s lips as he glanced back up to the new arrivals. His gaze settled on Phryne. “It seems Miss Fisher’s penchant for trouble has followed her home,” he replied. “A man collapsed at her front door.”

Miss Fisher smirked back up at him. “At least the case came to me this time.” The inspector gave a slight nod, acknowledging the difference.

“Was it anyone we know, miss?” Dot asked, eyes wide.

“Not yet… though his business card said he was Leslie Pemberton, a private investigator.” Phryne forced herself to break eye contact with the inspector. “Constable Bowen said he would have a full report ready by the end of shift in the morning.”

At this, the younger officer looked to his fiancee. “Sounds like I’ll be looking up information on Mister Pemberton in the morning,” he said, “which means I should probably go.”

Dottie nodded her understanding, even if her expression spelled disappointment. “Of course, Hugh. I’ll walk you out.” She looked to Phryne and Jack. “Good night, Miss; Inspector.”

“Good night, you two.” Phryne stood watching for a moment as the two disappeared into the darkness of the dining room. They would, no doubt, share a quiet moment or two in the privacy of the kitchen before the young constable slipped off into the night. She turned back to Jack. With a few steps, she closed the distance between them, standing just on the edge of what was decent. “And where does that leave us?”

He tilted his head, eyes dancing as he looked over every inch of her face. He took in the smooth, porcelain finish of her skin; the slight flush of pink across her cheeks; the way her eyes suddenly dilated as his gaze darted to her lips. “Well, I still haven’t had the dinner you promised me, and I’d hate for all Mister Butler’s efforts to go to waste.”

“I think we can fix that.”

***

The meal was a bit cool by the time they got to it, but for Jack’s first meal since breakfast, he found it more than acceptable. Though it might, he thought with a twitching smile, have something to do with the company. Now, having completed their portions, he and Phryne made to straighten up. Draping his jacket over the back of the chair he’d just vacated, Jack unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his shirtsleeves.  “If you hadn’t told me that photograph was Mrs. Stanley,” he drawled, “I doubt I’d have recognized her.” He shook his head, downing the last sip of a particularly good chianti.

“I have had a bit more opportunity than you to stare down her wedding pictures with Uncle Edward.” Phryne rose from her own seat, picking up their plates and moving to the basin. Having already prepared a bit of hot, soapy water, she dunked them, beginning to wipe at them with a rag. “It looks like it had to be taken shortly before the wedding… but I’ve never seen that man before.”

“So he’s not family?”

“Not that I’m aware of.” Phryne handed Jack a wet plate. He took it and began drying it as she turned her attention to the next one. “And it’s not as though it’s a casual picture. It was taken in a studio…”

“...which indicates at least a small amount of premeditation, making the appointment with the photographer and going to the sitting,” Jack said, finishing her thought. He placed the dry plate to the side, waiting for the next one. “And it _looks_ like an old engagement photo.”

“Exactly.” There was a hint of sadness in her eyes as she regarded him. “He was clearly someone important in Aunt P’s life, and I haven’t the slightest idea who he is, or -- worse -- why she’s never mentioned him.” She sighed, passing off the second plate and leaning against the basin. Mister Butler could take care of the rest in the morning. “Tomorrow is going to be very difficult.”

Stacking the second plate with the first, Jack frowned, drying his hands. His right hand came to rest on her shoulder. She hesitated a moment, knuckles white around the edge of the basin, as though debating whether or not to take the comfort he offered. Slowly, a decision reached, she curled into his embrace, arms around his trunk, head tucked under his chin. He could feel the moisture from her wet hands seeping through the back of his vest, but he didn’t care; some things were more important.

“She may be an old battle axe,” Phryne said, her voice muffled against his chest, “and she may have the _worst_ timing, but deep down she’s still a good egg who’s always been very kind to me.”

“We’ll handle it together, just like we always do.”

She drew back slightly, shifting to look at him. Jack noted that her eyes were suspiciously glassy, concern giving way to something very different as they once again became aware of their close proximity. And then there, before she could blink it away, a flash of insecurity. He swallowed back the lump that rose in his own throat. They were down to it, then.

Jack brought his right hand up, raking his long fingers gently through her hair, then coming back to cradle her cheek in his palm. So much he wanted to say, but found he had no voice. He chose instead to show her.

Slowly, he lowered his lips to brush hers, tentative and unsure, as though he expected, at any moment, to be interrupted again. When there was no one -- no Aunt Prudence, no doorbell, no Dot or Hugh -- he kissed her again, their lips meeting fully for the first time since Cafe Replique. This time, however, there was no element of surprise, only anticipation.

So much transpired since then: His divorce. Murdoch Foyle. Janey. He’d even thought he’d lost her a time or two, the prospect of which had nearly crushed him. They’d bantered and flirted their way through cases; grown to care and respect each other as friends -- but with an undercurrent of suppressed sexual tension that had almost driven both of them mad.

Now it seemed acting on that tension might drive them equally as mad. Their pulses quickened, blood rushing through their veins as their arousal spiked. Touching her -- _tasting_ her -- seemed surreal, reality of the moment surpassing anything he might have considered in the past. He backed her against the table, gripping her waist, and helped her slide her weight onto the horizontal surface. For her part, Phryne felt no small amount of relief, the moist warmth of his lips on hers dragging forth a deeper ache she tried not to identify. She focused instead on the hedonistic -- his hands fisting in her hair, the flood of desire between her thighs.

Her legs parted and he stepped in; she could feel his warmth and the very physical evidence of his own need pressing against her core. Blindly, her fingers fumbled over his vest buttons, coordination failing as their kisses became more erratic. Somehow she managed to work them free, slipping the fitted garment off his shoulders, and tossing it onto the sideboard. His hands trailed down her sides, thumbs pausing to graze hardened nipples through the dual layers of silk -- blouse and camisole. She gave a whimper with the contact; Jack felt a surge straight to his already straining groin. They couldn’t get close enough fast enough.

Phryne drew reluctantly back, her hair disheveled, swollen lips glistening in the dim light. She regarded him with a glazed expression. “Join me upstairs?”

“As much fun as it might be here,” the inspector said, feathering kisses down her neck to her collarbone, “upstairs would probably be more comfortable.”

Phryne slipped forward to her feet, her body sliding against his. She hesitated only a moment before interlacing their fingers and leading him up the staircase.


	3. Chapter 3

As was typical for a Thursday morning, Dot was the first awake, making her way into the kitchen to make the first cup of tea. She rounded the corner and stopped. A dark gray suit jacket was draped over the chair closest to the door. It was one she recognized from the previous night. She peered in. “Inspector?”

With no response forthcoming, she eased into the room. The previous night, when she had bid her farewells to Hugh, the table had been laid for a late supper, presumably for Miss Phryne and the inspector. This morning, it had been mostly cleared, save an empty wine bottle, two empty wine glasses, and Mr. Butler’s _gratin_ dish -- also empty.

Her eyes then caught sight of a heap of fabric sprawled across the sideboard. Was that…? Picking it up, she felt the texture and saw the pattern of the wool. It was a perfect match for the jacket now draped over the chair.

She slapped a hand over her mouth, stifling a gasp, eyes growing wide even as she held the vest at arm’s length. Her cheeks burned as she hurriedly draped the vest over the jacket, moving as though the item were on fire. They had --? In the _kitchen_? She fanned herself as the heat of embarrassment flared up her neck and over her ears.

At that moment, Mister Butler entered, clad in his usual black, ready for the day. “Good morning, Dorothy,” he said. He breezed past her toward the sink. “Well, looks like they started to clean up.”

Dot cleared her throat. “I-I think they may have, well, gotten a bit… _distracted_.” She shifted her weight, pointing to the top of the dark gray suit that was now draped on the chair.

“Hm, yes,” the butler mused. He pursed his lips, surveying the rest of the kitchen. “Nothing broken, so I assume they didn’t get _terribly_ distracted before changing locales.”

“Mister Butler! I - I -- I don’t -- how can you stay so calm?” Dot huffed.

The butler’s response was interrupted by a knock at the kitchen door. He turned, finding Constable Collins waving through the glass panes. “Oh, dear,” he said. With a slight shake of his head, he moved to open the door. “Good morning, Constable!”

Collins smiled, tucking his helmet under his arm. “Good morning, Mister Butler.” His smile widened on seeing his fiancee. “Dottie.”

“Hugh! What a surprise!” Dot jumped in front of the chair where the vest and jacket were draped, wringing her hands as she forced a smile. She offered up her cheek for a kiss.

The constable leaned forward and took advantage of the offered cheek, allowing his lips to linger for just a beat longer than his mother would have approved. He drew back, still smiling. “I got an early start, so I thought I might pop in for a cup of tea.”

“Well, Mister Butler and I were just starting a pot,” Dorothy shifted as he glanced at the table. “A-after we got the rest of these dishes cleared away, of course.” She licked her lips. “Wh-why don’t we go into the parlor? It’s a lovely day outside, and the sun is shining and --”

That was the exact moment when the inspector entered, clad in his shirt, slacks, and shoes, still working to button his right cuff. Spotting first Dot, then Hugh, and finally Mister Butler, he came to a full stop. He swallowed, clearing his throat. “Collins,” he said with a curt nod. He finished buttoning his cuff, then tugged down on the sleeve to adjust it. “Miss Williams; Mister Butler.”

“Sir,” Collins choked out.

“Jack!” Miss Fisher’s voice floated in from the dining room, announcing her arrival. “Don’t forget --” Rounding the corner in much the way Dot had only a few minutes prior, Phryne stopped abruptly. A length of blue silk dangled from her fingers, outstretched toward the inspector. “-- your tie,” she finished after a long beat. Her gaze flitted around the room. “Good morning… everyone.”

Mister Butler recovered first. “Good morning, sir; miss,” he said brightly. “May I offer you some breakfast?”

Jack tossed Collins a glance before looking back at Mister B. He turned up his collar and began to work the tie back into a four-in-hand. “Tea and toast? Miss Fisher and I need to leave soon.”

“Very good, sir.” Mr. Butler turned and began working at his newly designated task.

Dot reached up and used an index finger to close Hugh’s slightly gaping mouth. The action earned her an amused glance from both the inspector and Miss Fisher. “Anything for me, Miss?”

“I think perhaps a few of your biscuits for Arthur?” Phryne replied. “You know how much he likes them.”

Miss Williams returned the smile, glad things were circling back to an even keel. “Gladly, miss. I’ll pull them out of the tins now.”

For his part, Jack decided the best path was to charge forward as though everything were normal. “Collins, once you dig up something on Mister Pemberton, ring me out at Mrs. Stanley’s residence. Miss Fisher and I will be speaking with her this morning… and I don’t expect it will go quickly.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

The inspector reached for his vest and jacket, sweeping them off the back of the chair. He made to depart the room, but paused. “And Collins?”

Hugh looked up. “Sir?”

“Mister Pemberton can probably wait until after breakfast with Miss Williams.” Giving a flicker of a smile, he then vanished into the dining room. Phryne winked, then followed.

It wasn’t until they were safely in the parlor that Jack allowed his embarrassment to flare. He tossed his jacket and vest onto the chaise and plopped down into one of the side chairs, ostensibly to wait for their tea and toast. His gaze tracked her as she crossed, crouching beside his chair. Her hands came to rest on his knee, a rueful smile curving her lips as she looked up at him. “I suppose I should be thankful that Mister Johnson and Mister Yates didn’t decide to drop in for breakfast as well,” he said.

“I wish I could say I was sorry,” she replied, her eyes taking on a mischievous gleam, “but I’m not. Well… at least not about the events that led us here.” She paused a beat, index finger of her right hand curling patterns across his knee and thigh. “I _do_ wish things had been a bit quieter this morning.”

The teasing trail she drew on his leg spread warmth through him. They had eaten dinner late, making their way into the bedroom late, resulting in a very short night. Maybe they needed a little more time to reach an equilibrium? His attention flickered between her eyes and her lips, now smeared with a creamy red lipstick. Her pupils dilated slightly, her chest rising and falling a bit quicker at the attention. Their bodies were, it seemed, still humming synchronously with tension. Maybe, he mused, equilibrium was overrated.

They met half way, his lips pressing softly against hers, his palm coming to rest against her cheek. He drew back after a long moment. “I’m not sure I’m going to be able to look Collins in the eye for a few days,” he admitted.

Jack felt her lips curl under his. “Better him than Aunt Prudence.”

“Point taken… though we _do_ still have to go talk to her.”

“I’ll be on my _best_ behavior.” Phryne used her thumb to wipe her lipstick from his lips.

Amusement danced in his eyes, though he did not smile. “Exactly what I’m worried about, Miss Fisher.”

A soft “ahem” separated them, Phryne taking the empty chair beside him, smoothing down the front of her cream slacks as she did so. Mister Butler entered the room, placing a silver tray onto the center table. It was laden with a plate of toast, a pot of tea, cups, and exactly the jams and marmalades she and Jack preferred. “Brilliant as always, Mister B,” she said. “Thank you.”

“Not at all, miss; sir. Oh, and Miss Dorothy said she would place the tin of biscuits in your sedan, Inspector.”

Jack tilted his head to the side, regarding Mister Butler with a smile. “Thank you, Mister Butler.” He looked to Phryne, a bit smug. “Looks like we’ll make it there in one piece.”

She could only cut him a glare over the rim of her teacup.


	4. Chapter 4

“Cousin Ph-ph-phryne!”

A wide smile broke across Miss Fisher’s features as her slightly older cousin, Arthur Stanley, unsteadily made his way to meet her in the archway leading to the dining room. “Good morning, Arthur! You’re looking quite smart this morning,” she said. She enveloped him in a hug.

“Th-thank you,” he stammered. A child trapped in a man’s body, every syllable was an effort. He drew back when she released him, a conspiratorial smile creeping across his lips. “D-did you br-ing me any sweeties?”

“As a matter of fact --” Phryne paused, producing the tin Dot had so kindly packed into the police sedan “-- I did. Dot sent some of your favorite biscuits!”

Arthur’s eyes lit up. “I-I’ll have to sh-share them with M-miss Mary,” he said. “Sh-she really liked them, too.”

The fact that Mary, one of the “fallen” girls rescued from the Magdalene laundry -- with her son, had made friends with Arthur widened her smile. She tried not to think too hard about the true reason for her visit.

For his part, Jack stood quietly behind her, hands stuffed into his pockets. It was only the second time he’d seen the two interact, the last time during the mess involving Murdoch Foyle. He was struck by her tenderness, her consideration for a man who, in many other circumstances, would have been turned over to an asylum and forgotten. Instead, Arthur was treasured. It spoke volumes about the true nature of Prudence Stanley’s and Phryne Fisher’s hearts.

“Arthur, do you remember my friend, Jack?”

“The inspector.” Arthur beamed. “I… remember.”

Jack couldn’t help but smile. “Good to see you again, Arthur.”

“Ah, good morning, Phryne,” came the voice of her Aunt Prudence. She, like Arthur, was dressed for the day, usual multiple strand pearl necklace around her neck, wavy silver hair cropped short. Her tea-length dress skirted her rounded form, swirling around her ankles as she made her way through the dining room from the kitchen. “I’d offer you breakfast, but I --”

She stopped, finally spotting Jack. Her brow furrowed as she nodded a greeting. “Inspector.”

Jack returned the nod. “Mrs. Stanley,” he said. “I apologise for not calling first, but I’m afraid we’re here on official business.”

“Of course.” The furrow deepened in her brow. She looked to Arthur, who was attempting to conceal a black tin behind his back, and failing miserably. “Arthur, take the tin to the kitchen for Mary to keep, and then go to your room. We’ll go for a walk when I finish talking to Cousin Phryne and the inspector.”

“His name is… Jack! Cousin Phryne said so!”

Prudence raised her brows, looking to Phryne as she addressed Arthur. “Is that so? Well, do as your told, and let me go visit with Phryne… and Jack.”

Quoting the old “Jack Sprat” nursery rhyme, Arthur lumbered back through the dining room before disappearing into the kitchen. Phryne bit her lower lip, suppressing a laugh. “It seems Arthur has given you a nickname, Jack.” She paused a beat. “He’s obviously never seen you at dinner.”

The inspector cleared his throat, shifting his hands in his pockets, his gaze drifting down to his shoes before he dared look back up at her. He could feel Mrs. Stanley’s consideration in the uncomfortable moment that followed, Phryne holding his gaze with her own. He was the first to blink. His coat swished around him as he reached into his pockets for his moleskine and stub of a pencil. “Be that as it may, _Miss Fisher_ ,” he said, “I think we should get back to the matter at hand.”

Her lips twitched. “Of course.”

Mrs. Stanley gestured toward a nearby sitting room. “We can speak fairly comfortably in here.”

The two detectives followed Prudence into the next room, taking seats together on an ornately carved sofa; Prudence seated herself opposite them in the coordinating arm chair. “There was an incident at Miss Fisher’s home last evening,” Jack began.

“Incident? Is everyone all right? Jane -- ?”

“Yes, Aunt Prudence, everyone is fine.” Phryne cleared her throat. “Well, everyone except my visitor: A private investigator named Mister Pemberton. Do you know him?”

Prudence shook her head. “No, I can’t say that I recall ever meeting him. What happened?”

“I’m afraid he collapsed in my front hall.”

“Phryne!” Her aunt’s face was pale with shock. “A man _died_ in your front hall? This business of yours can be so…” She grimaced, obviously struggling with the right description. “... _Fatal_.”

“So I keep telling her,” Jack said. It was a wry comment, spoken in a low tone, his lips barely moving. He cut Phryne a sidelong glance even as he reached into his vest pocket for the photograph and passed it to her. It was her brief now.

“When we searched his body for identification, we came across this photograph.” Miss Fisher hesitated a moment before offering the photograph up to her aunt. “I recognized you, but… I didn’t recognize the young man in it with you.”

Mrs. Stanley reached, taking the photograph. As she gazed at it, her eyes visibly glassed over. “Dear Lord,” she whispered. “I haven’t seen this photograph in years.”

Jack felt Phryne tense up beside him, reaching absently for his hand. He swapped his pencil to the hand with his notebook, then allowed her to take his free hand, interlacing her fingers through his in the narrow gap between them. It was the only visible reaction as she watched her aunt’s distress. “When was it taken?”

“Three years before dear Arthur was born,” Prudence replied. Her voice was distant, her mind drifting back to the days surrounding the photograph. “This was supposed to be our engagement photo.”

“Our?”

“His name was Harrison Shaw and, for a brief while, he _was_ my fiance.”

Phryne swallowed the knot that rose in her throat. “Was? What happened?”

“He was an American, sent to Australia by his father to watch after his business interests.” Mrs. Stanley offered the photograph back to Phryne. “After we were engaged, he was returning to America to make preparations; I was to follow once he sent word.” She paused, struggling. “He...he died aboard ship en route. His father wrote mine and explained that his heart had unexpectedly given out.”

Phryne took the photo from her aunt, looking on it with a new regard. “I-I had no idea.”

“No, I imagine not.” Prudence sniffed, tugging a fine linen handkerchief from her sleeve. She dabbed at her eyes and shook her head. “It was not something we spoke of afterward, even between your mother and myself.”

“So why, thirty years later, would a private detective have this photograph? Something tells me there’s more.”

Prudence hesitated, her eyes flitting to the inspector even as she shifted in her seat. Phryne seemed to get the hint. “I realize this is difficult, Aunt P,” she said slowly, “but whatever it is may be relevant to the investigation.” She watched as her aunt passed another glance to Jack. If she noticed how close their hands must have been in the void between them, Prudence said nothing. “I think you know you can count on Jack’s discretion,” Phryne added.

After a long moment, her aunt nodded. “Yes, I suppose I can.” She stopped again, visibly struggling with what needed to be said. “I was young, in love, and -- I’m afraid -- terribly naive. After Harry sailed, I -- we discovered I was with child.”

It was one of the few times Jack saw Phryne speechless. She unraveled their fingers, readjusting to grip his hand as she digested the information. He stroked his thumb across the back of her palm, offering what comfort he could manage in a surreptitious manner. He cleared his throat. “Obviously you didn’t keep the child.”

“Your Uncle Edward and I had been friends since we were younger. Actually, Mother and Father rather expected me to marry him before Harry entered the picture. When he discovered the trouble I was in, he offered to marry me. I had no real alternative, of course, but at least I did care for him.” Prudence gave a rueful smile, her hands absently twisting in the handkerchief. “And he did offer to raise the child as his own.

“But it was not to be,” Mrs. Stanley continued. “The last weeks of the pregnancy were a bit fraught, and I ended up spending the last weeks in bed. The midwife did all she could, but the child didn’t survive.”

“Oh, Aunt P,” Phryne sighed. How could she have carried this burden for so many years? The grief must have been staggering, the lady detective thought. Puzzle pieces fell into place, unlocking the dichotomy that was Prudence Stanley: A society matron concerned about appearances, yet so caring for her sons and so determined to help the fallen and friendless girls of Melbourne. Now she understood. Without Edward Stanley, Prudence might have been one of them.

Phryne watched as her aunt gathered herself, dragging her thoughts back into the present. Her voice was stronger when she spoke. “It was a long time before I felt entirely myself, but I did manage to get on my with life. Edward was incredibly supportive. Enough so that, eventually, we had Arthur; Guy, a year later.”

A long moment of silence hung in the air as the two detectives struggled to absorb the information Prudence offered. The older woman looked up, rimmed eyes directed at her niece. “I hope you don’t think any less of me, Phryne.”

Releasing the warmth of Jack’s hand, Phryne reached for her aunt’s, enveloping it in both of her own. “I could never think less of you, Aunt Prudence. Losing your fiance and your child so close together -- those are two very heavy burdens to bear. If anything, I think _more_ of you.”

Gratitude radiated from Prudence’s features. “Thank you, my dear girl.” She patted her cheek fondly.

Jack was loathe to intrude upon such a moment between the two women, but there were still questions to ask. He cleared his throat softly, his voice gentle as he asked, “Then I assume you’ve not been contacted regarding this information? Say, by someone who threatened to expose it?”

Mrs. Stanley shook her head. “Not at all, Inspector,” she replied. “As a matter of fact, I’d not spoken of that time in over a decade -- not until today, that is.”

“Then the question remains as to what it has to do with our dead private investigator.” Phryne looked back to the inspector. “We’re almost back to square one.”

“Almost, but not quite, Miss Fisher.” Jack slipped his notebook and pencil back into his pocket. He was going to have to write up this summary from memory. Thankfully, it was information he was unlikely to forget. “We should head back to the station and see if Collins has any more background for us.”

An impish gleam lightened Phryne’s expression. She rose with her aunt, Jack following suit. “Yes, provided he finished his breakfast with Dot.”

Jack absently smoothed his fingers over his tie as he recalled the awkwardness of the morning. He then narrowed his eyes at her briefly, a silent conversation between the two. “I’m quite sure he’s well-finished by now… as are we.” He looked to Prudence. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Stanley. I’m sorry to bring up such a difficult subject.”

“It’s all right, Inspector. I do hope it turns out to be helpful.”

“So do I, Mrs. Stanley; so do I.”


	5. Chapter 5

As they attempted to say goodbye, Arthur convinced them to stay long enough to go on his walk with his mother. Phryne passed Jack an apologetic glance, hooking her arm through his. Together, arm-in-arm, they wandered the grounds, Phryne discussing all manner of lighter fare with her aunt -- luncheons, fundraisers, and other social events. Arthur periodically interjected random observations about the various shrubs, trees, and flowers seen along the path; Jack remained largely silent, observing as was his habit. Everything appeared normal.

Appearances could be deceiving, however, and Phryne was an actress _par excellence_. To Arthur and even Mrs. Stanley, she appeared her usual livewire self. The way she kept him close, her hand on his bicep, however, Jack could sense her tension. He had little doubt what she told Mrs. Stanley was true -- she thought _more_ of her for her confession, rather than less. Still, it was a lot to take in.

He suspected the occasional raised eyebrow from Mrs. Stanley did little to alleviate the tension, either.

After their walk, an uncharacteristically quiet drive to City South station only confirmed his suspicions. He had been keenly aware of Phryne’s distant gaze, her attention directed at things well beyond the horizon. Maneuvering the motor car into a spot outside of the station house, he cut the ignition and turned toward her. He studied her profile for a long moment before he spoke. “Are you all right?”

A flicker of confusion crossed her features before a soft smile replaced it, silently thanking him for his gentle concern. “I’m fine, Jack,” she replied. “I suppose I’m still a bit shocked.”

The inspector gave a rueful smile. “I think that’s allowable, all things considered.” He shook his head. “I’m quite a bit surprised, myself.”

Phryne reached, picking up his left hand, cradling it in her own. Her need to touch him, to feel connected to him surprised her. She drew comfort from his warmth, the steady gaze of his hazel eyes as they sat together. “I always thought her so silly and old fashioned,” she said at length. “But that really wasn’t the case at all.”

“I think you and I both know life can offer a few tough lessons.”

“In the worst way possible!” Unbidden, a thought of Jack dying on a three month voyage -- or worse, shot in the line of duty -- flashed in her mind and she nearly choked. She suddenly had an inkling of what that pain might be like. “Losing a fiance would be bad enough; but then losing an unborn child, the last remaining link to him? I… don’t know that I could survive that.” Her eyes stung as she shook her head. “She’s made of sterner stuff than I ever imagined.”

Jack felt his chest constrict. The way she looked at him, fear and panic mingled with sadness; the way her hands clung to his -- was she more affected by Mrs. Stanley’s story than even he first thought? He swallowed, holding her gaze with his own. “Phryne,” he said, “you’ve stared down murderers, slavers, and disapproving nuns. Not saying it would be easy, but  _you_ , of  _all_ people would survive.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but her voice caught in her throat. The reverence and affection she saw in his eyes tugged at her heart. He knew; he knew, dammit! Why that surprised her, she couldn’t say; they read one another far too easily of late -- especially now. And now here they were, sitting in a police sedan, parked outside the City South police station, unable to do a damn thing about it.

"It’ll keep for now, Phryne,” Jack said. His voice was unusually husky and she thought she detected a slight sheen to his eyes as well. He turned his hand over, taking hers into his, then bringing it to his lips. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her palm.

Reminding herself to breathe, Phryne forced a chuckle. “Keep doing that, Inspector, and poor Collins will have to arrest us for indecency right here in front of the station. Very unseemly.”

Jack gave a flickering smile. “Then we’d better go.”

She could feel his hand occasionally brush against the small of her back as he escorted her inside -- a new development. It hovered there through the entryway and into his office, guiding, supporting, protecting. Once inside, he rounded the desk and flopped into his chair with a heavy sigh, the springs creaking loudly in protest; she took the seat opposite him, forcing herself to pull back. They both needed space and time to think clearly.

Half a heartbeat after they settled, as Phryne’s feet came to rest on the corner of Jack’s desk, Constable Collins entered. Though his eyes occasionally darted between the two detectives with no idle amount of curiosity, he appeared much recovered from his morning shock. “Morning, sir; Miss Fisher,” he said. He offered Jack two brown folders. “Constable Bowen’s report from last night, and the coroner’s report just arrived.”

“Yes, well, I think we already have a pretty good idea what’s in Bowen’s report,” Jack said. He cleared his throat, cutting a glance to Phryne before switching to the second folder. Flipping it open, he turned directly to the remarks. His practiced gaze scanned the document quickly for relevant information. “Initial examination suggested cardiac arrest,” he muttered, “but circumstances and unknown medical history suggest further investigation… irritation of central nervous system… combination with ventricular fibrillation possibly indicative of digoxin toxicity or derivative. Full autopsy and toxicology reports to follow.”

“Digoxin or derivative. It  _could_ be for a medical condition.” Phryne scowled. “We’ll still have to reconstruct his final day: Where he went; who he saw; where he ate; who joined him for dinner; if he has a heart condition... Considering what we know about the man could fit in my hat --”

Jack cut her a glare, silently scolding her for being less than helpful. She merely rolled her eyes at him a cheeky smile twitching at her lips. Oh, she was going to pay for that later, he thought. He looked to the constable. “Collins, were you able to dredge anything up on our friend, Mister Pemberton?”

“I found an automobile registration for a Mister Leslie G. Pemberton,” Hugh began, reaching into his belt pouch for his notebook. He flipped the cover open and scanned for the information he needed. “A black 1928 A-Model Ford Business coupe. Rego has his address listed as 75 Queensberry Street, Carlton. I came across a title deed for the same address, registered to Mister Pemberton.”

The inspector looked to Phryne. “Not a horrible area of town.”

“And he has a relatively new car.”

“So either he’s also an independently wealthy private investigator” -- he smirked, seeing Phryne roll her eyes -- “or he’s a moderately successful private investigator.”

She frowned, thinking of her aunt. “Or a master blackmailer.”

Jack quirked a brow at her. That was a particularly bleak supposition, especially considering the moments they so recently passed in the car. “You’re cheerful all of a sudden.”

Phryne sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose between her index finger and thumb. When she looked up, she gave Jack a rueful smile. “My apologies, Inspector. Obviously nothing you did.” She swung her feet to the floor, sitting up. “So, Carlton -- home? Office?”

“Both?” The inspector shrugged. “Given that he owns the property, it’s a possibility.”

“Still, St. Kilda is a long walk from Carlton, and yours was the only automobile on the curb last night” -- she paused, taking pity on Hugh for the moment -- “when Mister Pemberton stumbled in. So where is his? At the site of his last supper?”

“Not much to eat out there, beyond the chip shops along the foreshore.”

“He was in no condition to walk from the foreshore, much less beyond. Someone had to have driven him. Taxi?”

Jack nodded. “If we give them a photograph, do you think Mister Yates and Mister Johnson might be willing to check with their...cohorts?”

“If they’re not, I’ll make sure they change their mind.” A wry grin curved her lips. “In the meantime, perhaps we should take a drive over to Carlton?”

The inspector grinned, rising as he reached for his hat. “I thought you’d never ask.” He looked to Collins. “Grab your helmet, Collins. You’re going, too.”

Hugh cleared his throat. “Y-yes, sir.”

Phryne watched him disappear around the corner, then rose, looking to Jack with an impish gleam to her eyes. “It’s a little late for a chaperone, Inspector.”

He stood toe-to-toe with her, feeling his pulse quicken at the proximity. “Not at all, Miss Fisher. Just a reminder that we have work to do,” he said. “And Hugh has quite a bit to learn still.”

“Oh, he could get a lesson or two, all right.”

“ _Not_ the lessons I had in mind, Miss Fisher.”

“Obviously.” Her grin turned decidedly wicked, her finger sliding down the crease of his lapel. She then leaned in, lips centimeters from his as she whispered, “Those would be better suited to his wedding night.”

“ _Ahem_ .”

Jack took a step back, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat. The flowing drape of the twill concealed the effects of his discussion with Phryne. Collins stood in the doorframe, leather hat on his head, chin strap in place. A hint of pink stretched across his cheeks and around ears. “R-ready to go when you are, sir.”

“Right.” The inspector gestured for Phryne to take the lead. “After you, Miss Fisher.”

She was still grinning when she sashayed past Collins. The inspector merely shook his head and followed suit; the constable fell into step just behind him. “Not one word, Collins.”

“Not offering one, sir.”

Jack gave a curt nod. “Good man.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As previously, many thanks to Sassasam and Seldarius for their beta services... and to all of you for your continued support, kudos, and comments!

Jack pulled the blue four door to a halt just outside the office of “L. Pemberton, Private Investigator.”  He frowned as he observed the building. A storefront only a block down from Lygon Street, the large plate window to the left of the door had been shattered, shards glittering in the daylight along the sidewalk. He could see, too, that the wire security frame had obviously been snipped, then bent inward to allow access.

Phryne passed him a glance. “Why do I suddenly have a feeling he didn’t have a heart condition?”

Shaking his head, Jack hopped out of the vehicle. He then rounded the back and pulled open the door for Phryne, offering her a hand as she climbed out of the sedan. Collins was three steps ahead of them, adjusting his helmet as he walked.

“‘Bout bloody time you lot showed up!”

Directing their attention back to the door, they found it was now open, a petite redhead standing amidst the glass, hands on her hips. “I realize there may be more important things goin’ on elsewhere, but just because a woman telephoned a crime --”

“And what crime, exactly, did you report, Miss…?” Jack was already reaching into his pocket for his credentials.

“Clark. Abigail Clark,” the woman replied. “I’m Mister Pemberton’s assistant. Didn’t you write it down?”

Jack showed the small red booklet that identified him as a member of the Victoria Constabulary. “Detective Inspector Robinson of City South. I’m afraid that neither my constable or I received your report.” He glanced up at the roadsigns, verifying the cross streets. “Collins, go around the corner to the hotel and telephone City North; see what’s holding Crosley up.”

“Yes, sir.” The young constable tipped his head toward Miss Clark and Miss Fisher, then disappeared around the corner to carry out his orders.

Miss Clark still regarded them with no small amount of curiosity. “If he’s Collins; you’re Robinson,” she said, turning her attention to Phryne, “who’re you? Out for a ride with your old man?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Phryne replied, casting a sidelong glance to Jack. She extended her hand. “Phryne Fisher. I often consult on cases with City South.”

“Well, if you ain’t here to ‘consult’ on a robbery, what’re you here for?”

Jack cleared his throat. “Perhaps we could step inside, Miss Clark?”

Continuing to eye them warily, she nodded and led them into the office. A former apothecary shop, wood-trimmed glass cases lined the walls, black and white tile stretching across the space. Two sofas, upholstered in a soft red, formed a small sitting area toward the front window, while two desks were centered along the shorter back wall, situated such that the occupants faced one another. Paper and folders littered the floor around the desks, drawers and filing cabinets hanging open.

Abigail took up position in front of what was likely her desk, folding her arms across her chest. “Well?”

The inspector frowned. This was the part of his job he hated. Would Abigail Clark remain as strong and stubborn when he delivered the news? He suspected not. “I’m sorry to tell you, Miss Clark,” he began gently, “that Mister Pemberton died late yesterday evening.”

The color drained from her features, freckles now visible against the pallor. She leaned more heavily onto the desk. “Oh, Les,” she whispered. Blinking, she looked back to the inspector. “What happened?”

“He collapsed on my doorstep.” Phryne looked down at her toes, then back to Miss Clark. “The inspector and I attempted to help him but I’m afraid it was too late.”

Jack cleared his throat. “The coroner has yet to fully determine the cause of death,” he said, “so Miss Fisher and I are looking into the circumstances.” He withdrew his notebook and pencil, prepared to take notes. “Do you know if Mister Pemberton had any medical issues? Heart trouble, for example?”

“Not that I know of, but his weight --” Abigail paused, a rueful smile flickering across her lips. “He’d gained weight recently, got away from his training… He used to be one of the best boxers in the constabulary, back home.”

“And where was home?”

“Sydney,” she replied. “Les came here first, shortly after he left the station, then asked me to come, work with him. He got me out of a pretty bad situation.”

Phryne studied her profile for a long moment, watching the way Abigail spread her hands over her thighs, wriggling fingers that had no adornments. “The two of you were… close, then.”

The ginger-haired assistant nodded. “Just in the last couple of years,” she said. “It… took us a while to figure it out.”

“It can be like that sometimes,” Phryne replied, not unkindly. “As his assistant, Miss Clark, could you, perhaps tell us a bit more about the type of cases Mister Pemberton took on?”

“Divorce cases paid the bills, of course, but it was all buckshot: missing persons; blackmail; the occasional adoption case.” A slight smile played across her lips. “Those were the ones Les really appreciated.”

Jack looked up from his notes. “Adoption cases?”

“Finding one or both parents,” Abigail replied. “Les was adopted himself, so he really loves being able to help kids find their parents or parents find their kids. Don’t turn out like fairy tales, most of them, but some have happy endings.”

“Do you know what cases he had on his docket? Anything that might have… engendered violence toward him?” Phryne regarded Miss Clark, her brow furrowed in thought. She was already working the possibilities, even as she was taking in more information.

"It was the nature of the job, Miss Fisher,” Miss Clark said. “In uniform or out, digging around in secrets doesn’t -- didn’t -- necessarily endear him to some people. Yeah, he was trusted by his clients -- had a good reputation with them, but…” She shook her head. “I was under no illusions that this job was any safer than being a copper.”

Jack grimaced. He knew too well the dangers of the constabulary and, more recently through his association with Phryne, how dangerous being a private investigator could be. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he withdrew the photo they had discussed with Prudence Stanley. “Miss Clark, do you recognize this photograph?”

Abigail took the photo and frowned. “It seems familiar, but I really can’t be sure which case it was tied to.” Passing the photo back to him, she gestured to the room. “Maybe once I can figure out what’s here, I can be of more use.”

“You’ve already been more helpful than you know, Miss Clark.” Phryne glanced past her, noting a small calendar on the desk surface. There were several notes scribbled on the paper, large black numbers still declaring the previous date. “Do you have any idea about Mister Pemberton’s schedule for yesterday?”

“He had an appointment with his barber, first thing,” Miss Clark replied. “After that, he was in the field, chasing down leads. I’d have more for you on that, if those ruddy constables will just get here so I can inventory and clean up.

“Oh! He did have a client meeting last night,” she continued. “Dinner at the Windsor.”

Jack pursed his lips. “Do you remember which client?”

“Mitchell. Aury? No,  sorry --  _Aubrey_ Mitchell. They were to meet at half-seven… I remember because Les and I had to cancel our plans.” Her gaze drifted toward the floor briefly before she looked back up to the two detectives, clearing her throat. “He was one of our adoption cases.”

“Do you happen to have any contact information for Mister Mitchell?”

“He’s originally from Sydney -- someone Les knew from the old days,” Abigail explained. “Had him come down to follow some leads. I think he was staying at the Windsor, himself.”

The inspector nodded, jotting down a few more notes in his moleskine. Behind him, he could hear the familiar voices of Collins and Sergeant Crosley approaching. “One last question, Miss Clark: Did Mister Pemberton, at any time, mention consulting with Miss Fisher?”

Abigail shook her head. “I don’t think so. But then, if it was something he came across that day, I’d have no idea, would I?”

“No, Miss Clark; I suppose you wouldn’t.” Jack closed up his notebook, stuffing it and his pen back into the pocket of his suitcoat. “When you feel you’re able, I’m sure the coroner would appreciate if you stopped in to confirm Mister Pemberton’s identity. And if you could please provide me a list of any missing items, it would definitely help my investigation.”

“Y-yes,” the assistant replied. “I-I’ll be able to do both later this afternoon… when I’ve put this back to order. He wouldn’t have liked the mess.”

The inspector nodded a farewell to her, sympathy writ across his features. He then looked to Phryne. “I’m going to go speak with the sergeant. Meet me back outside?”

Phryne glanced over his shoulder at Crosley. She recognized him as the responding officer to the death of Sarah Holloway, a hostess at the local high-end gentlemen’s club. She had been found strangled in a locked room at the home of then-Deputy Commissioner Sanderson -- with an unconscious Sanderson. At the time, Crosley had been more than happy to gossip about the possibility of Sanderson’s fall from grace; he’d been less than thrilled to turn the case over to Detective Inspector Robinson. She suspected he was likely to be equally as enthralled now.

“Of course.” Reaching out, she placed a hand on his forearm and gave it a squeeze before stepping toward the door. She nodded her own farewell to Abigail Clark.

“DI Robinson,” Crosley said. His accent was thicker than most, with a hint of a lilt behind the syllables. “You’re a bit far from home.”

Jack attempted to ignore the accusatory note in Crosley’s tone. “Sergeant Crosley,” he replied evenly. “A pleasure as always.”

Crosley cut a glance at Phryne as she swept through the door. “Wish I could say the same,” he replied. “What seems to be the trouble here?”

“Sergeant Crosley, Miss Abigail Clark,” the inspector said, offering brief introductions. His hands coming to rest on his hips. He watched as Constable Collins took up position in the doorframe behind the sergeant. “With the broken glass and scattered files, Crosley, I’d say break and enter would be a good guess.”

“Sure it wasn’t your lady friend?” The sergeant arched a brow, pulling out his own notebook. “I mean -- the _lady detective_ ?”

“The lady detective,” Jack said, “prefers to pick locks rather than smashing windows. A little more elegant that way.” The muscle in his jaw ticked as he stood, staring down the junior officer for a long moment. Taking a step forward, he made to pass Crosley, pausing.

“I’d like a copy of your report sent over to City South as soon as possible. It’s tied in to my current murder investigation.”

Sergeant Crosley pursed his lips, then gave a curt nod. “I’ll send it by courier first thing.”

That was all Jack could ask. He returned the nod, thanking him, then finally swept past him and out the door. Phryne was waiting, leaning against the passenger door of the sedan. She greeted him with her usual lopsided grin. “The sergeant was charming as usual, I take it?”

He offered her a twitching smile, his eyes holding hers. “He’s a good cop, Phryne.”

“Just not a very nice person.”

At this, the inspector gave a snort. “‘Abrasive’ was the word once used to describe him. Seems fitting.” He shoved his hands down into his pockets and looked down at his shoes before looking back up at her. “Nothing we can do now but wait for his report. So… the Windsor?”

An impish gleam lit Phryne’s eyes. “We could ask some questions, get some dinner…”

“I’m afraid I’ll --  _ahem_ \-- need a change of clothes. I have, after all, been wearing these since yesterday.”

Her gaze drifted over him with an appreciative air; he allowed a knowing smirk. “Pack a bag, Inspector,” she whispered at length. “I fully intend to take advantage...of a very comfortable bed at the Windsor.”

Jack swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the effort, ears twitching slightly he struggled with his control.  Holding her gaze with his own, he stepped close, reaching behind her to open the door. “I’ll drop you home first.”

Her lopsided grin widened as she slipped into the seat and he closed the door for her. She noticed he didn’t say “no.” Then again, given their rather embarrassing morning, perhaps the prospect of a night away from her highly populated household was promising. With a tilt of his head, Jack disappeared around the back of the vehicle.

“Collins!”

The constable hovered nearby, diverting his eyes by examining and straightening the metal numbers on his custodian helmet. His attention snapped to the inspector. Seeing that he was waiting at the car, Hugh rushed over and climbed into the backseat. He hoped it would be a quick ride back to the station.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to Sassasam and Seldarius for their beta expertise. Any mistakes you see now are my own. =D

After his shift that evening, Hugh Collins made a return trip to 221B The Esplanade, rapping gently on the kitchen door. Mister Butler greeted him warmly as ever, inviting him in and offering a cup of tea. “I believe Miss Dorothy will be down presently. She and Miss Fisher are finalizing details for this evening.”

"A cuppa sounds good, Mister B. Thanks.” Hugh placed the duffel bag containing his uniform on the floor just outside the pantry before flopping down into one of the round-back wooden chairs as Mister Butler slid a steaming cup of tea before him. He reached immediately for the sugar bowl, slumping back into the chair as he removed the lid.

Tobias Butler observed the young constable for a long moment, watching as he spooned three helpings of sugar into the hot amber liquid. His usual open, honest face was dark with an odd mix of confusion and frustration crinkling his brow. “Something tells me you’ve had a troubling day, Constable,” he said at last.

Collins let out a long sigh. “You could say that, Mister Butler.” He paused and swirled the spoon absently in the tea as he contemplated his next words. “It… shouldn’t bother me the way it does.”

“The inspector and Miss Fisher?”

The constable nodded. “My mum and dad always taught me that... _things_ … between a man and a woman were supposed to wait till you were married -- a way of joining souls the way marriage vows join man and wife.” The spoon didn’t cease swirling the liquid in his cup, his eyes fixed on the currents he was creating. He looked back up at Mister Butler. “I-I know it can be _fun_ ; I heard from a lot of mates in school that it was. But it doesn’t seem right, somehow, an-and the type of girls who do that sort of thing --”

“Aren’t the marrying type.” Mister Butler completed the thought.

“Right. And Miss Fisher -- well, she _does_ that sort of thing. I know she’s a good person, Mister Butler. She’s done so much for me, for Dottie, for Jane; and I can’t argue with the fact that the inspector seems happier when she’s around.” The furrow in Hugh’s brow deepened, recalling the brief period last year when Miss Fisher had been an unwelcome visitor at City South. The inspector had reverted back to his old, taciturn self, closed up in his office more than Hugh could remember. He seemed to be in mourning, for what Collins hadn’t been able to guess.

Mister Butler raised his brows, sensing he already knew what was coming. Given the young constable’s state of confusion, however, he thought it best to allow him to speak his mind. “But you’re having difficulty understanding why the inspector would do something you consider to be the wrong thing?”

Again, Hugh nodded. He pursed his lips, finally setting aside the spoon and lifting the cup for a sip. He then returned the cup to the table, considering it for a long moment before looking back up to the elder man. “I just don’t want to see him so...quiet again.”

Mister Butler pursed his own lips for a moment, then regarded Hugh with a thoughtful smile. “When you first asked Miss Dorothy to the dance, what were you most afraid of?”

“That I’d embarrass myself… that she’d say no.”

“But you decided the risk was worth the reward?”

Hugh blushed, hints of pink reaching all the way to his ears. “Well, it ended up that she asked me, but… yes. It’s been worth every minute.”

“Nothing in life, Hugh, is without risk. Sometimes, the more we risk, the sweeter the reward. You know the inspector is no stranger to risk, nor is Miss Fisher.” Mister Butler reached for the teapot, freshening his own cup. “They trust one another, care for one another. But sometimes a point can be reached where words can’t express the depth of feeling. Or, perhaps, the words don’t come easily. I daresay things might be better conveyed through… well, actions usually reserved for husbands and wives.”

The crease in Hugh’s brow deepened as he considered Mister Butler’s explanation. He hadn’t yet reached that point with Dottie, but he could see it happening. The swell inside his chest when she smiled at him, the way she felt when he held her to him in a far too-fleeting hug -- he was quickly approaching the point where “I love you” seemed too simple. He’d never quite thought to attribute such feelings to the inspector and Miss Fisher… especially given what he understood of Miss Fisher’s past history.

Still, he remembered vividly the day they had discovered the body of Kitty Pace along the St. Kilda foreshore, one of the first times Miss Fisher had ever deferred to the inspector as they sought answers to the poor girl’s death. It was also one of the first times he could recall the inspector actually requesting her assistance in an investigation. Mutual respect had grown between them since; by the time of the _Pandarus_ , she may has well have been in the constabulary herself.

Through Dot, he knew the two had also spent at least a few evenings together along the way, often with a drink after closing a case. Sometimes there had even been dinner involved. He had certainly noted the late supper laid out for them last night as he said his goodbyes to Dot here in the kitchen. In all the times they had spoken of those drinks and dinners in passing, however, Dottie had never mentioned breakfast. Was that a new development? He felt a blush creep across his cheeks again as he considered the possibility.

“So...you think they might…” Hugh stumbled over what he really wanted to ask. “Is it possible… maybe Miss Fisher might be... the marrying type?”

At this, Mister Butler raised his brows. “I shouldn’t like to say, Constable” -- he paused, a grin slowly spreading across his features -- “but I’ve learned that, where the inspector is concerned, anything is possible.”

A rapping at the back door brought their conversation to a close. Looking up, they watched as the two former wharfies, Cecil Yates and Albert Johnson, let themselves in. Cec immediately removed his hat; Bert didn’t bother. “Evenin’, Mister B,” Cec said. He stuffed his cap into the back pocket of his pants and nodded to Collins. “Constable.”

“Mister Yates; Mister Johnson,” Collins replied. “Oh… I have something for you.”

This sparked Bert’s interest. He regarded the constable with a wary expression. “Yeah? What’s that?”

Hugh reached into his vest pocket, withdrawing a small photograph of Mister Pemberton, mounted on a piece of pasteboard. “This is a photograph of the man who died in Miss Fisher’s entryway,” he said, handing the photo over to Bert. “She and the inspector thought maybe he’d caught a lift in a taxi that night -- if you’d be willing to ask around?”

Cec leaned in, looking over Bert’s shoulder. “Sure,” he replied. “We’ll start looking around after we drop Miss Fisher by the Windsor.”

Bert passed Cec a glance that said he wasn’t quite so keen to help the constabulary, but did not voice an objection. Instead, pocketed the picture and asked, “What’s got her going to the Windsor tonight, anyway?”

“Oh, she and the inspector have a possible witness to interview,” the constable answered. “In town from Sydney, apparently.”

The sound of Phryne Fisher’s voice carried through from the back stairs. “Bert! Cec!” A second later, the lady herself appeared, dressed for dinner, a black leather valise in one hand and a coordinating fur stole draped over her left shoulder. A black satin reticule hung from her wrist. “Ah, there you are,” she said. “Hold this for a moment, if you would. I need to grab one other small item before we leave.”

Cec took the bag from her outstretched hand, unable to make comment before she turned and disappeared back up the stairs, a flash of glitter and beadwork. He furrowed his brow, looking to Bert, Mister Butler, and Hugh. “If she’s just going to interview a witness, what’s she need a bag for?”

Hugh took a sip of his tea, avoiding eye contact with the two former wharfies. Given the discussions he witnessed between the inspector and Miss Fisher earlier that day, he rather suspected there were other plans in motion; he had, after all, heard the inspector make reservations for himself at the hotel. It was safer not to think about _that_. He felt the blush start to crawl across his cheeks just as Miss Fisher returned, cinching up her small satin bag.

“Ready now, gents,” she declared, sweeping through and grabbing her bag from Cec as she did. “Good night, all!”

Bert eyed Collins as the young constable focussed on his tea, clearly refusing to look their way as Cec stared after the whirlwind that was The Honorable Miss Fisher. “C’mon, Cec,” Bert said at length. His gaze remained fixed on Hugh. It was clear the constable knew something more than he was sharing. Chances were, because it was Collins, it was somehow about the inspector… and Miss Fisher. Not an innocent, Bert could hazard a guess or two. A lopsided grin curved his lips. “Best not keep the lady waitin’ too long.”

Hugh felt Bert’s gaze boring into the back of his head and swallowed. It was only after the door closed and the two comrades disappeared around the corner that the constable released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks to Sassasam and Seldarius for their lovely beta work. Much appreciated! Any mistakes you see now are my own.

As Jack climbed the short staircase into the Windsor, the doorman pulled on the scrolling brass handle and held open the oversized glass door. He nodded his thanks to the uniformed man before stepping into the lobby where high ceilings, brass and crystal chandeliers, and plush carpets greeted him. Though clad in his newest grey wool suit, his five year old tie, twill topcoat, and well-worn brown oxfords left him feeling a bit underdressed. Swallowing back his discomfort, he crossed to the front desk.

The attendant, a gentleman at least ten years his senior, greeted him with a hesitant smile. “Good evening, sir. How may I assist?”

“Ah, yes,” the inspector replied. “A reservation for Robinson?”

“One moment.” Flipping back a page in the log, the attendant ran a finger along several lines before finding his name. “Mister Jack Robinson?”

Jack nodded. “Inspector, actually,” he said, offering his credentials. “I was wondering if you have a guest registered here… a Mister Aubrey Mitchell?” He noted a frown flickered across the elder man’s features before he could blink it away. “He’s a witness in a current investigation.”

The attendant seemed to relax at the word “witness.” “Yes,” he finally said. “Mister Mitchell is a guest here. I believe he has dinner reservations in the restaurant, if you’d like to catch up with him there. You’d need to speak with the _maitre d’hotel_.” He slid a key across the desk. “Your key, Inspector.”

“Why, Inspector! Imagine running into you _here_!”

Slipping the room key into his pocket, Jack turned, watching as Phryne emerged from the general direction of the lifts. He fought the smile that threatened to steal across his features. “Miss Fisher… Following up on your own leads, I presume?”

“Aubrey Mitchell?” The inspector nodded and Phryne had no reason to suppress her own grin. “Then it seems I’m two steps ahead of you once again, Inspector. I’ve already spoken to the _maitre d’hotel_. He has a dinner reservation for seven.... and so do I.” She batted her eyelashes in an exaggerated manner, playing up for the desk attendant. “You could, of course, _join_ me for dinner, and we could speak to Mister Mitchell together?”

Jack cleared his throat. “I appreciate the offer, Miss Fisher, but I hardly think --”

“Inspector, please,” she said, interrupting him. “I do at least owe you for coming to my rescue aboard the _Pandarus_.” News of her involvement in the arrest of Sidney Fletcher and George Sanderson had been keeping the gossips busy for the past few weeks. She thought it might be time to use that little tidbit to her advantage.

“Then I can hardly decline, can I?” Jack shifted his weight from one foot to the other, doing his best to ensure he appeared uncomfortable. He found it wasn’t too much of an act: Phryne was too well known in society not to be recognized while at The Windsor. The possibility of their ulterior motives being discovered would scandalize them, the hotel, and her usual circles. Which, he thought, was probably one of the reasons she was so determined to take full advantage of … the hotel’s renowned comfortable beds. Ironically, he still felt they had less of a chance of discovery here, however, than back at The Esplanade.

“Wonderful! If you’d like to drop off your bag, perhaps we could run into Mister Mitchell in the lounge?” Miss Fisher beamed.

The desk attendant cleared his throat. “I can, of course, have your things sent to your room, Inspector,” he said. “It would be a shame to keep such a charming lady waiting.”

The inspector hesitated, then relented. He watched as the attendant rounded a corner, taking his coat, hat, and bag. “Your items will be waiting in your room when you are ready to retire, sir,” the elder man said.

“Th-thank you,” Jack replied. He gave an uncertain smile, which the attendant returned, then focused his attention on Phryne. Bowing his head slightly, eyes focussed on her, he gestured that she should lead. “After you, Miss Fisher.”

The desk attendant made every effort not to notice the inspector’s hand hovering at the small of Miss Fisher’s back as they made their way toward the lounge.

Phryne passed him a sidelong glance, an impish gleam dancing in her eyes as they walked. The brush of his hand against her lower back -- occasional and very light, but still very present -- sent a rush down her spine. She fought back the accompanying shiver. “Anything new happen this afternoon whilst I was busy plotting?”

“Crosley already sent over the report on that break and enter,” he replied, “and Miss Clark stopped by on her way to the morgue. Crosley stated there were no prints found on the filing cabinets, and he’ll be forwarding photographs as soon as they’re copied.” A lopsided grin flickered across his lips as he heard her breath catch at his touch on her back. “Miss Clark says, at this point, nothing appears stolen, but most of their files had been rifled.”

“So either someone didn’t need to take the information, or --”

“They didn’t find what they were looking for.” He shared a grin with her, noting that, once again, they were thinking along the same lines. It quickly faded to a frown, however, as he considered their current situation. “Speaking of plotting…?”

“Hm?”

“If the concierge is taking my bag to my room --”

“How are we going to manage? Oh, trust me, Inspector,” Phryne said, impish gleam returning to her eyes as her gaze flitted down his body, then back to meet his eyes. “I have the situation well in hand.”

Jack staggered slightly, his own breath catching as heat surged through him. He knew he was blushing, but there was little he could do about that. Widening his stride, he managed to keep up, but only just. He then leaned closer to her ear, keeping a distance that was barely proper. “Dirty pool, Phryne.”

She stopped just outside the lounge, turning to face him. Her grin was wicked as she licked her lips, her voice dropping to an octave he’d heard only the night before. “It was you who said all was fair in love and football, wasn’t it, Jack?”

The inspector was stunned to silence. He stood stock still, his eyes searching hers. Had she really meant it? As he watched, her expression softened, the corner of her mouth twitching a sort of rueful apology. It clearly wasn’t how or where she had intended to speak to what was building between them, but she wasn’t backing down. He swallowed back the lump that suddenly rose in his throat. “It was,” he finally managed. His hands clenched at his sides, fighting not to touch her. “A long time ago.”

“In some ways, it feels like a lifetime,” she whispered. A torrent of emotions swept through her, confusing, and maddening, and exhilarating at once. Where was the woman who swore she’d never commit? How had this man -- her closest friend outside of Elizabeth MacMillan -- breached her defenses and stolen her heart? Slowly and carefully, she thought, with the patience of a saint. She wanted to be angry, wanted to deny the swell of emotion he created in her, but found it impossible. For the first time in her life, she had found a man who accepted her for who and what she was. It was a humbling and surreal experience.

Looking to him now, her eyes were suspiciously glassy, a genuine smile curving her lips. She blinked rapidly, an ironic chuckle working its way out. “And here I thought Aunt P was the only one with bad timing.”

His own voice was low and quiet when he finally spoke. “Then I’d say you come by it honestly.” His attention darted to their left and right, recognizing that they would quickly attract attention if this continued. He cleared his throat, then turned, offering her his arm in silent invitation.

Phryne curled her hand under his bicep, just above his elbow, taking a deep breath. “I think I need that drink now.”

Jack covered her hand with his, and they walked together into the lounge. “I do believe we’re in the right place, Miss Fisher.”

The low murmur of conversation greeted them as they sauntered to the bar. Guests and locals alike dotted the room, a wide range of drinks favored among them -- red wines, white wines, cocktails, and whiskeys. The bartender was immediately attentive.

“I’d like a martini, please,” Phryne told him, “and this gentleman will have --”

“Tea.”

She looked at Jack askance. “Really, Inspector?”

“Afraid so, Miss Fisher.” He gave a wry grin. “I _am_ still on duty.”

“Suit yourself.” Phryne looked back to the bartender. “A martini and a cup of tea, I suppose, then.”

The two detectives watched as the bartender made to prepare their drinks. Miss Fisher then stepped closer in toward Jack, allowing her forearm to brush his on the bar, her hip bumping his. “This is going to be one of the longest dinners ever,” she muttered.

“Longer than a Sunday dinner with Aunt Prudence?” The inspector cut her a grin.

Phryne regarded him, amusement in her eyes. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

At this, Jack raised his brows. He opened his mouth to comment, but was interrupted by the bartender’s return and the placement of their drinks before them on the bar. Reaching into her black satin reticule, Phryne withdrew several pound notes, placing them on the bar next to her martini glass. She kept her fingertips firmly on top. Jack recognized that they well exceeded the amount due for the drinks. “It’s yours,” she told the barkeep, “if you’ll point me in the direction of Mister Aubrey Mitchell.”

The bartender gave a slight nod, directing their attention to a table toward the back corner. A man in a dark suit sat alone, a half-finished ale before him. He was well-groomed, hair slicked perfectly back, dark tie in a Windsor knot at his throat. Phryne offered the barkeep a wide smile, withdrawing her hand and waving brightly.

“Come along, Jack. We have work to do.”

With a sigh, the inspector picked up his tea and followed, two steps behind.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Sassasam and Seldarius for their continuing beta services, and sometimes talking me through some of the insanity the characters are leading me to. You rock!
> 
> Any mistakes you see now are definitely of my own doing. =D

They found Aubrey Mitchell to be as well-spoken as he was well-dressed, his Received Pronunciation equal to any Phryne heard in smartest areas of Knightsbridge and Mayfair. He did not, however, exude any false airs; he was imminently comfortable and confident in his own skin, and greeted the two detectives affably.

“And what is it that I can do to assist you, Inspector; Miss Fisher?” he asked once the introductions were complete.

As if by silent agreement, Phryne took the lead, engaging social graces suited to their current environment. “We wondered if we might speak with you concerning Mister Leslie Pemberton?”

Mitchell gestured to the two open seats at the small table, taking his seat only when Miss Fisher took hers. His brow was furrowed slightly. “Les? I hope he’s not in any sort of trouble. We were supposed to meet for dinner this evening.”

“I’m afraid Mister Pemberton won’t be joining you, Mister Mitchell,” Jack said. “He… passed away late yesterday evening.”

“Good Lord.” His widened hazel eyes flitted to Phryne. “Apologies, Miss Fisher. It’s just -- I’ve known him for a number of years. I-I can’t imagine --” He stopped, shaking his head. “We had dinner just last night.”

Phryne had not taken offense at his language, and so let it pass, unremarked. “So his assistant, Miss Clark, said,” she replied. “You very well could be one of the last people to see Mister Pemberton alive.”

“H-he seemed fine throughout dinner,” he stammered. His previously warm cheeks took on a much less rosy tone as a level of shock set in. “Talkative, friendly. We discussed some new findings in my case and he thought he might have more to discuss tonight. I...was beginning to wonder where he was.

“What happened?”

“The coroner has yet to provide a final report, but it was under suspicious circumstances.” Jack leaned in, placing his cup and saucer onto the small table before them. He withdrew the small moleskine and pen from his interior suit pocket. “And what case, exactly, had Mister Pemberton been investigating for you, Mister Mitchell?”

The gentleman took a sip from his tumbler, frowning. “When I was ten, I was sent home on school holiday with a letter. Another student, Haworth Thomas, had been picking on me, accusing me of not being my father’s son. It ended as most situations like that do -- in a fight. My parents sat me down that evening and informed me that I had been adopted.”

Jack scribbled down a few notes, Phryne glancing over his shoulder. They exchanged a quick glance, and he then returned focus to their witness. “So Mister Pemberton was assisting you in searching for your parents?”

“He was.” Mitchell sighed. “Les Pemberton was the responding constable -- a sergeant at the time -- when I reported my father’s passing five years ago. He handled everything very professionally. Afterward, he would periodically stop in to see how I was faring. We struck up something of an unlikely friendship.

“When I made the decision to search for my parents last year, I called on him. He was more than willing to assist.”

“And had he made any headway?”

At this, the man hesitated. Phryne, sensing his discomfort, shifted forward slightly in her seat, placing her hand on the table between them. “I realize this is quite personal to you, Mister Mitchell, but something Mister Pemberton was investigating could very well have led to his death,” she said. Mitchell nodded. “If you could tell us what information he conveyed to you, it might help us sort out the circumstances surrounding his death.”

“I know.” Taking another slug from his tumbler and signalling for another, Mitchell exhaled. “My mother and father worked with their solicitor -- that was where Les started. He was long since gone, but his son took over the practice, and eventually referred him to a rest home -- Glenham Vale -- just beyond Beaufort.”

Phryne raised her brows. “A private rest home?”

“Private and well-funded,” Mitchell answered, recognizing that Miss Fisher would understand what that inferred -- it had been established to cater to the social circles to which she belonged. “The rest home closed some ten years ago, but with no small amount of effort, Les tracked down one or two of the remaining doctors. Last week, one of the doctors discovered my file among his papers and contacted Les. Reviewing the file jarred his memory. He remembered having been told that my parents died in a sailing or boating accident after I was born.”

“A dead end, then.” There was a softening of Jack’s expression, his voice offering a slight note of sympathy.

“Of a sort,” the gentleman said, nodding. “Being a policeman, Les had almost supernatural instincts, and he felt something wasn’t quite right. He offered to verify the story and get back to me. That was what he was working on -- for me, at any rate.”

The inspector pursed his lips, nodding as he made a few further notes in the small notebook. “Did Mister Pemberton ever mention consulting another detective for assistance?”

Mitchell shook his head. “Not that I am aware of. I suspect Abigail -- Miss Clark -- would have a better idea on that front than I.”

“So he made no mention of consulting with Miss Fisher?”

Again, the gentleman shook his head. “None at all. Why do you ask?”

“Because Mister Pemberton collapsed at my front door,” Phryne answered, “before he was able to tell me his reason for calling.”

A long moment stretched between them, and her eyes narrowed as though working her way through a puzzle. “Jack,” she began slowly, “may I see the photograph we retrieved from Mister Pemberton’s pocket?”

Reaching into his own suit pocket once again, Jack withdrew the image of Harrison Shaw and Prudence. He looked down at it before looking up at her with a cautious expression, eyes communicating a silent question. She nodded imperceptibly, holding his gaze with her own. He passed her the image.

An unsettling chill swept down the back of her neck. She fought the shiver, but could not seem to gain ground over the surreal feeling of the moment. “Mister Mitchell, could you tell me if you recognize this photograph?”

Mitchell watched the exchange, the crease in his brow deepening when he looked to the picture. “Yes,” he replied. “Les showed it to me last night. It was apparently included in my file. He suspected it might have been my mother and father.”

“I see.”

Jack looked to Phryne. Her tone was flat and, though she tried to maintain her composure, the color had drained from her cheeks, her left hand clenched in her lap. Heedless of Mister Mitchell, Jack closed his notebook over his pen, then reached and covered her left with his right. “Phryne,” he said quietly.

Phryne shook her head quickly, swallowing as she regained her bearings. She slowly relaxed her hand, turning it over to squeeze his once -- firmly, quickly -- offering him a flickering, wan smile. “I’m fine, Jack -- really,” she said, then slipped her hand from his.

“I’m sorry… I clearly missed something,” Mitchell said. He regarded the inspector and lady detective, clearly confused by their behavior. His gaze flitted to the photograph. “You know who this is?”

“Actually, I do, Mister Mitchell.” Miss Fisher looked to him. She considered him for a long moment before her expression shifted. Her eyes took on a note of sympathy, knowing the next words out of her mouth would shock him more than the death of his friend. “The woman in the photograph is my aunt, Prudence Stanley. And she’s very much alive.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Sassasam for her beta services on this chapter. Any mistakes you see are my own!

Mitchell blinked as though the world seemed out of focus, cheeks taking on a more ashen pallor and his breath came in shallow puffs; his hand trembled as he attempted to raise his glass to his lips. Thinking better of it, he put the tumbler back onto the table.  “Alive? How is that possible? The doctor --”

“The doctor was only partially correct,” Phryne interjected. “The man in the photograph did die at sea, but on his passage back to America, not sailing or yachting or the like. A heart attack, I think Aunt Prudence said.”

“So my mother… is still alive?” His voice was a fragile mix of wonder and confusion mirrored in his features. “How did --? Why?”

Miss Fisher smiled ruefully. “If you truly are who you say, then she believed you dead as well.”

Mitchell nodded. “I-I see.” His pronunciation slipped as his emotions whirled. “Do you think -- is it possible -- could I… meet her?”

At this, Jack cleared his throat. “I think it might be better for _all_ parties concerned if certain… connections are verified before anyone meets anyone else,” he said, “for your sake _and_ Mrs. Stanley’s.”

“Yes, of course,” Mitchell replied. He withdrew a handkerchief from his interior pocket, wiping his brow. “I mean no scandal -- but I do understand. I only want to know more about where I came from.”

Reaching into her reticule, Phryne withdrew a business card. She offered it to the gentleman. “Why don’t you come to dinner tomorrow evening -- around half-eight? We can review the information Mister Pemberton provided and see if there’s some way I might could move the investigation forward.”

Aubrey allowed a slight smile. The color was returning slowly to his cheeks, though he was still considerably pale. “I’d like that very much, Miss Fisher,” he said, glancing at his watch. He rose. “If you don’t mind my leaving, I should try and get some dinner.” He turned to Jack. “You’ll know where to find me, should you have any further questions.”

“Of course, Mister Mitchell.” Jack nodded his farewell. “Until tomorrow.”

Mitchell returned the nod, nodded to Phryne, then disappeared toward the dining room.

Jack slipped his notebook and pen back into their usual place in his suitcoat, then turned his attention to Phryne. Removed from others, he was finally able to voice his concern. “Are you all right?”

Phryne watched after Aubrey until he was lost in the crowd. “If he feels anything like I do, I doubt he’ll be able to choke much down,” she said. A smile flickered across her lips, her eyes not yet having regained their usual sparkle. “Though I did notice you invited yourself for dinner tomorrow.”

The gaze he levelled at her was both amused and stern. “I was not about to let you have dinner with one of our suspects, even if he might be your cousin.” He paused a beat. “What about dinner tonight?”

“I’m afraid I’m not terribly hungry -- not after that,” she replied. Her eyes darted left and right, taking in the crowded room. When she spoke, her voice dropped to a whisper, naked vulnerability in her eyes as she regarded him. “Will you meet me upstairs?”

It was difficult, Jack noted, to see the usually unflappable Phryne Fisher so unsettled twice in as many days. Worse, in the lobby of this hotel, with so many prying eyes, he could offer nothing in the way of a response appropriate to their relationship -- friendship or otherwise. He finally nodded, lips pursed. “Yours? Or mine?” he asked quietly.

“Yours,” Phryne replied. She downed the remains of her lukewarm martini and stood. A smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. “This time, I’ll give you the head start.”

He rose as she did, careful to maintain appearances in such a public place. His eyes showed his amusement, though his features remained neutral. “A fair change of pace, Miss Fisher,” he said quietly. For public consumption, he raised his voice somewhat and added, “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well, Miss Fisher. We could reconvene in the morning, if that suits you?”

“Yes, Inspector,” she answered. “That would suit me fine. Shall I ring you?”

Jack gave a taut smile. “That would suit me fine.”

“Until tomorrow, then, Inspector.”

The inspector stood watching as she wove her way toward the dining room, stopping to speak to the _maitre d’hotel_. Turning and setting course for the lift, he absently adjusted his tie, swallowing back the anxiety rising through him. Surely they were fooling no one with their act? Or was it, he thought, another unspoken rule of the upper class -- so long as one appeared to play by the rules, they looked the other way? He snorted. Probably, he reasoned. All about appearances, anyway.

Reaching the lifts, Jack paused, realizing he had not yet seen his room number. Fishing his key from his pocket, he looked to the stamped brass keychain attached to a matching brass key. The cage door opened before him and Jack stepped inside. “Third floor,” he told the attendant.

He watched absently as the attendant secured the cage and the car began its ascent. The mechanisms clattered noisily, echoing in the chamber, but Jack paid them no mind. How was it that he’d allowed himself to be talked into this again? A warm rush threatened his composure as he recalled there had been little discussion involved: A long goodbye that afternoon in the foyer of 221B, with Collins waiting in the car; Mister Butler in the kitchen; and Dot working embroidery in the parlor, pretending not to notice their attentions to one another. It had been enough to encourage him to seek privacy elsewhere. Phryne accepted the challenge with a wicked gleam.

The lift shuddered and halted on the third floor. Wordlessly, giving only a nod to the elevator attendant, Jack stepped out into the corridor. The plush carpet padded his steps and he was struck by the fact that he had never once been beyond the ground floor of this hotel. Doors lined both sides of the corridor, some stained wood panels, others adorned with lead-paned stained glass.

Jack drew up short before his own room. He had rather expected a plain door for a more sedate room -- exactly what he could afford. Instead, he stood before more stained glass, elegant brass script scrawled over the top of the doorframe. He sighed. “Phryne,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Slipping the key into the lock and opening the door, he paused and pursed his lips in appraisal. A large window was opposite, darkness filtering through white sheers while a single lamp burned on the far nightstand. Set before it was a sitting area with two wingback chairs and a small side table. The bed, of course, was centered along the perpendicular wall, a desk and wardrobe opposite. It was not basic, nor was it extravagant. He was begrudgingly pleased.

He closed the door behind him, moving toward the wardrobe. The Windsor had a reputation for thorough efficiency. Had his things been put away, as he suspected? Tugging open the doors, he found his second surprise of the evening: His clean suit, hung alongside the black silk embroidered dressing gown he recognized, as well as a dark blouse, trousers, and a coordinating day coat; a hat rested on a shelf in the space above the rack.

Jack again swallowed back the rising anxiety. Once upon a time, such a sight had been common, familiar, and even welcome. But that had been a lifetime ago -- before the war, and long before Rosie removed herself to her sister’s home. Seeing such a thing, Phryne's clothes intermingled with his so casually, reminded him of her, barging into his life the way she always had. Once, it frustrated him. Now, it kindled a warmth in him that had little to with lust and a great deal to do with the conversation they’d had standing in the walkway to the lounge.

A knock at the door brought him out of his musings. Through the stained glass, he could see a familiar silhouette. A grin flickered across his lips as he pulled open the door. Phryne stood just in the hallway, a bottle of whiskey in one hand, a brown-wrapped parcel in the other. She gave her own sheepish grin, holding up her treasures. “It occurred to me that, knowing your appetite, skipping dinner entirely was probably a very bad idea.”

His grin slipped into a smile. “Hardly oysters and asparagus,” he quipped, stepping aside to allow her to enter, “but more than adequate.”

Phryne took the unspoken invitation, stopping abruptly as she looked to the open wardrobe. “I see Nell has been by,” she said. She attempted to keep her tone light, but could not help the slight waver that crept into her syllables.

Jack watched her charge forward and...stop. He had not missed the waver, nor the way her eyes widened ever so briefly as she looked to the wardrobe. Closing the door behind her, he took the bottle and the parcel, placing them onto the desk, then moved to close the wardrobe. “Nell?” he asked.

“Nell Williams, formerly known as ‘ _Lola_ ,’” she replied. The inspector arched his brows, and Phryne shrugged a shoulder. “After everything that happened at the Imperial Club, Nell wasn’t sure she wanted to go back. I -- well, Aunt P and I -- worked a few connections and found her a position here, acting as a ladies maid. She was more than willing to assist with the more… delicate… logistics for this evening.”

A moment of silence fell between them. If asked later, neither would have said it was tense, but strangely uncomfortable. At length, Phryne shook her head. “This is ridiculous,” she said. Reaching up, she smoothed her hand over his tie. “Nightcap?”

Jack regarded her with a soft expression. “Sounds like a good place to start.” He placed his hand over top of hers, right above his heart. “You could... change into something more comfortable while I lay out our picnic?”

Phryne nodded. Without a word, she leaned forward, placing a warm, gentle kiss to his lips. He gave a lazy smile as she drew back, slipping her hand from beneath his. She then opened the wardrobe, removing her dressing gown, and closing the doors again. A moment later, she had disappeared into the _en suite_.

Exhaling a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, the inspector finally felt himself beginning to relax. This was supposed to be a _fun_ evening, after all, he thought. He moved quickly through the motions of getting comfortable himself, then went about setting up their impromptu indoor picnic.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my beta readers, Seldarius and Sassasam, who talked this cat out of a tree a few times through the course of this chapter. I have tried to incorporate suggestions from you both; any mistakes y'all see now are completely my own doing.
> 
> Thanks, also, to my friend Michelle, whom I dragged into the periphery of this fandom and who has offered endless enthusiasm and encouragement as I slogged my way through. 
> 
> To note: This is probably the, ah, _warmest_ chapter I've written in quite some time, and it seems I'm a touch rusty. Here's hoping it comes across as intended.

When Phryne emerged from the bathroom some minutes later, she found Jack propped on an elbow at the foot of the bed, sock-clad feet hanging off one corner. He had removed his jacket, waistcoat, and tie, unbuttoning the top few buttons in the interest of comfort; his braces hung loosely from the buttons at his waist. The brown paper had been spread out before him like a platter and, in his hands, he held two small tumblers of whiskey. He offered one up to her with a lopsided smile. “Not quite an afternoon in Fitzroy Gardens,” he said. “Still -- care to join me?”

Chuckling, she took the tumbler from his hand, allowing her fingers to brush along his. “This,” she began, “is much better than an afternoon in the gardens.” She took a sip of the amber liquid, savoring the smoky flavor and warmth as it washed down the back of her throat. She then moved to the other side of the bed, hiking the dressing gown enough that she was able to seat herself with her legs curled under her, weight propped on her right hand.

Humor danced in his eyes as he looked up at her. “And why is that, Miss Fisher?”

She picked up one of the sandwiches and tore off a bite, popping it into her mouth. “No dirt. It could make these lovely sandwiches so gritty.”

“A definite bonus. I’d wager we’ve both had our share of gritty sandwiches.”

Phryne shuddered visibly. “Gritty rations were even worse,” she commented. “And there are no ants here, either, to fight off.”

“No; no ants to try and cart off our little dinner,” Jack said. He sipped his whiskey, watching her over the rim of his glass. “Anything else?”

She broke off another bit of sandwich, offering it to him. He nodded and, holding his eyes with her own, she fed it to him. “No prying eyes,” Phryne continued. She stroked the side of a hooked index finger gently over his cheekbone.

“And?”

“And you.” She felt the smile welling up from deep within her as she looked over him affectionately. “No coat; no tie; no vest; no shoes. Just… Jack. You’d never shed your armor so willingly in the middle of Fitzroy Gardens.”

“It’s all an act, Miss Fisher.” His voice was low and rough as he responded. She quirked a brow and he reconsidered. “It’s _partially_ an act,” he said. “In the lift, in the hallway, I kept asking myself how I ended up here tonight.” He shook his head. “I’ve never done anything like this.”

Miss Fisher tilted her head, furrowing her brow. “Like this?” she asked. “Enjoying the charms of a woman outside of marriage? Or assignations in a posh hotel?”

The inspector cleared his throat. “This isn’t something that I ever would have attempted -- before or after marriage. But we -- you and I -- ” Pausing, he visibly struggled with what he was trying to say. He downed the last swallow of whiskey in his glass before looking back up at her. His gaze dusted her features with such tender affection it stole her breath away. “I ran out of words, Phryne.”

A knot rose into her throat and her eyes stung. “Oh, Jack,” she whispered. She placed the palm of her hand against his cheek, much as she wanted to earlier in the evening as they stood by the lounge. “This isn’t football, is it?”

“No, Phryne. It’s not footie.” He chuckled despite himself. His hand covered hers, his thumb beginning to trace patterns on the back of her palm. “I think it’s much more dangerous than that.”

“I didn’t want it to be.” Her voice was barely above a whisper when she spoke. He watched as she swallowed and closed her eyes, savoring his attentions, though her brow was creased. “I wanted you to be a challenge, another handsome man to share my bed. But then there were the cases, and the nightcaps, and all our conversations.” She shook her head. “I didn’t want it to be more… but it is.”

Leaning forward, her black bob slipping around her cheekbones and framing her face, she brushed her lips against his with surprising apprehension. He looked back at her, a smile in his eyes. Slowly, he reached up and tucked her hair behind her ear, long fingers coming to rest in the dark strands at the nape of her neck. He gently guided her lips back to his and her eyes fluttered closed of their own accord. She drank in the feel of him, the taste of him, both intermingled with the sweet smokiness of the whiskey.

He drew back a long moment later, his chest rising and falling a bit more rapidly, eyes darkened as his gaze brushed over her features. “And I’m not here to apologize,” he said, echoing her own words from what seemed a lifetime ago. It earned a chuckle from her, breaking the heavy tension of the moment. He tucked the errant lock of hair behind her ear again. “Are you all right?”

Phryne pursed her lips, finger tracing the top button of his vest as she considered. “It’s been a rather exhausting couple of days,” she admitted. “Though I have to say the shock of discovering Mister Mitchell might be family… I’m not sure quite how I feel about that.”

“You don’t have to work it all out now,” Jack said. His fingers trailed down her satin-clad arm, eventually taking her hand in his. He enjoyed the warmth, the softness of her skin. He’d almost forgotten the luxury of a gentle touch, and hadn’t realized how much he had missed it. “Quite a lot to take in.”

Miss Fisher smiled at their intertwined hands, the way his thumb traced a curved line across the back of her palm. The warmth of his grip grounded her; she relished the connection. “Like you, I think it best if I don’t mention Mister Mitchell to Aunt P just yet,” she mused. “I just haven’t the slightest idea how to broach the subject once the moment arrives.”

“I’ve always heard one shouldn’t borrow trouble,” he said. “Worry about it when the time comes. You’ll know what to say, Phryne. You always do.”

A wry smile curved her lips. “A trait you share, Inspector.”

“I do try, Miss Fisher.” He returned her a rueful smile. “Except where I fail.”

The low, rough timber of his voice sent a thrill through her. Leaning down, her lips met his halfway. She slipped her hand free, dragging her fingernails over the scalp just above his ear, the short, closely-cropped hair bristling against her skin. “Then perhaps actions should speak louder?”

“Perhaps so.”

"Then let's save these for later." She offered him a wry smile, drawing away to wrap the remaining sandwiches back into the brown paper, placing them onto the desk. She then turned back to the inspector, taking his empty tumbler and her own. He watched as she deposited them beside the sandwiches. The bed cleared, she levelled a smouldering look his way. “Something tells me you’re far overdressed for the occasion.”

“I suspect, Miss Fisher, you might be the one to help correct that oversight.” Jack sat up, swinging his feet to the floor, observing with heavy-lidded eyes as she returned to him. She stepped in between his knees, his hands coming to rest against her hips, hers against his collar. Warmth rushed through him at her proximity, heartbeat quickening. He could feel her fingers working the smaller buttons as his own began to work the knotted sash at her waist. With a final tug, it came free and the robe spilled open.

Jack swallowed and allowed his hands to slip between the robe and her hips, eyes darkening further as he noted the pale pink silk camisole and smalls beneath. Noting his reaction, Phryne gave a lopsided grin, lowering her lips to his. “Like what you see, Inspector?” she asked, even as her hands slipped beneath his now-unbuttoned shirt. She teased her fingers across his chest then flattened her palms against his shoulders. Exerting a touch of pressure, she then pushed his shirt over his shoulders, her light touch trailing down his arms as he shucked off the sleeves.

The feel of her fingers ghosting down his arms sent a shiver through him, the contact arousing and tickling at the same time. “Always, Miss Fisher,” he managed. He gave his own wry grin against her lips. “But I thought we’d already established that.”

Jack made quick work of his own singlet, then used the momentum to move to his feet. Following his lead, Phryne instinctively took two steps back, allowing him room to stand. The light undershirt had barely landed when she resumed her place against him and he staggered slightly with the force of her return. Her hands slipped over his chest, fingers reading the curves and indents of his firm musculature like braille. Unlike his hands -- slightly calloused and rough -- his chest, back, and arms were smooth, a shade more pale than his face and neck. It spoke of a life largely spent buttoned up… something she hoped to remedy as often as possible.

Not one to stand idly by, Jack slipped his arms around her waist, drawing her even closer to him as his tongue parted her lips and deepened their kiss. This elicited a hum of surprise from Phryne that he felt more than he heard. His own hands then swept the dressing gown off her shoulders; it drifted to form a puddle of black silk around their feet. His hands roamed the bare skin at her shoulders and neck, sweeping down across her back to revel in the way her skin radiated heat through the delicate silk.

Her lips still tangling with his, he felt her fingers brush the bare skin above the waist of his trousers. “Said you were overdressed,” she breathed against his lips. Delicate touches trailed down his fly, the agonizingly light pressure against his member driving him ever the more crazy. A frustrated moan escaped him even as the wool fabric fell away and he felt the cooler ambient air wash over him.

Trailing moist kisses along Phryne’s neck, Jack paused to nip lightly on the lobe of her ear. “So are you,” he teased. His hands slipped beneath the camisole, long fingers splayed against the bare skin of her back briefly before sweeping upward, stripping the silk over her head. He allowed his fingers to trail slowly down her sides and then back up before brushing her darkened, erect nipples with his thumbs. He was rewarded with a needy whimper as his lips descended on hers once again. Another moment, and their remaining undergarments blindly joined the pile on the floor.

Jack felt himself press against her bare stomach, the warmth and silkiness of her skin more than he could handle. He bent, hooking his arm under her knees and lifted her into his arms. She gave a throaty laugh, kicking her feet as he stepped over the unorganized pile of fabric and rounded to the side of the bed. He lowered her carefully to the soft, downy comforter, then covered her body with his own. A few moments later, as he settled into the cradle of her hips, they soon found words had failed them both.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to Seldarius and Sassasam for your beta services and feedback on the chapter. Any mistakes you see now are my own!

Left hand in his trouser pocket, right absently smoothing over his tie, Jack traipsed down the final flight of stairs into the Windsor lobby. Though it was still a touch too early for most of the hotel guests to be stirring, the hotel staff bustled about. He narrowly avoided a collision with a bellhop as he rounded the corner toward the breakfast room.

Sunlight spilled through the windows, a natural accent to the white linens and sparkling silver atop the tables. Jack also noted the way it shone on Phryne’s slick bob and seemed to make her glow. Or maybe, he thought, it’s because she’s smiling -- at me.

“Good morning, Inspector,” she said brightly as he approached her table. “I do hope I didn’t wake you?”

Jack looked at her, noting the feigned innocence. Two images from that morning flickered across his memory: One, waking in the grey morning light to find her kissing her way down his torso, looking up at him with an impish gleam. Portions of his anatomy had been more than happy to greet her. The second image -- Phryne wrapped in only a white towel as she emerged from the bath, just as he’d knotted his tie. She had “accidentally” dropped the towel; he’d instantly removed the tie… leading to the necessity of dressing twice that morning. Even now, the memory stirred him.

“Not at all,” he replied, lowering himself into the seat beside her. He cast a sidelong glance at her as he lay a napkin across his lap. “I’ve always been something of an early riser.”

Phyne arched a brow at him, her gaze dropping rather pointedly to the part of him the table now blocked before meeting his again. “Hm. Not a quality I share,” she said. “I’d much prefer to laze about… especially when I’ve had a particularly late night.”

They shared a grin as the waiter came over and delivered a fresh pot of tea. Jack ordered his breakfast while Phryne made herself busy with her toast, smearing a large dollop of marmalade across the crunchy, browned surface. The waiter disappeared back into the kitchens, and an impish expression stole across Phryne’s features. Pretending to get a little of the sticky substance on her finger, she brought it to her lips to remove it, looking to Jack. He cleared his throat as his nostrils flared. “Phryne,” he whispered, glaring at her. “ _Behave_.”

“Why would I start now?”

“I realize it _is_ a foreign concept to you,” he began, lips twitching slightly, “but we are still in public, and I would hate to be arrested for indecency charges.”

She pursed her lips. “That could be potentially awkward.”

Jack nodded. A mischievous gleam met hers. “Especially since there’s a good chance Crosley could be the responding constable.”

“What a horrid thought.” Phryne visibly shuddered. “I’ll mind my manners… for now. Besides, we have work to do. Where are we off to today?”

“I thought another visit to Miss Clark might be in order, as well as telephone the New South Wales Constabulary.” He paused, taking a cautious sip of his tea. “Maybe by then we’ll have the final coroner’s report.”

Phryne chewed a bite of her toast thoughtfully. “You think Mister Pemberton’s death might be linked back to case he’d worked as a constable?”

“I think that, as a member of the constabulary, he dealt with all kinds of unsavory individuals,” Jack replied. “We can start with any parolees, and go from there. I’d rather it be a crim than someone associated with the adoption case.”

At this, Miss Fisher grimaced. “Yes, and -- at some point -- I’m going to need to discuss the adoption case with Aunt Prudence,” she said, sighing. “If Mister Mitchell is joining us tonight, then it will likely have to wait until Sunday dinner.”

“Phryne, _darling_!”

The furrow in her brow deepened as she looked first to Jack, then toward the room at large. She blinked as she spotted her cousin, Guy Stanley, and his wife, Isabella, walking directly toward their table. The flighty blonde grinned madly as she dragged her husband along. “It’s been an age!” she exclaimed, leaning forward and kissing Phryne on each cheek.

Guy held out one of the empty chairs for Isabella, then leaned down and kissed his cousin on the cheek. “Good morning, Cousin,” he said. He regarded her with a wry grin as he took a seat beside Isabella, then looked to Jack. “And Inspector Robinson… happy to see you under better circumstances.”

Jack nodded his greeting, a taut smile across his lips. “Mister Stanley.”

The waiter reappeared, brandishing silverware, cups, and glasses for the new additions. “I _told_ Guy I thought I saw you in the lounge last night, but then you disappeared before I could say hello,” Isabella pouted.

“I wasn’t quite feeling myself last evening,” she replied. “I ended up retiring quite early.” She could feel the discomfort radiating off Jack in waves and found she wasn’t entirely relaxed, herself.

“Well, you must be feeling better,” Guy commented. A knowing grin slipped across his features. “You’re looking positively radiant this morning.”

Phryne cast a sidelong glance at Jack. A hint of pink spread quickly across his cheeks, reaching his ears as he swallowed. “Guy --”

“ _Relax_ , Phrynekins! Your secret is safe with us,” her cousin replied. “Honestly, if Mother knew _half_ of all we got up to in London, she would be absolutely _appalled_.”

Isabella gave a snort. “She’d be appalled at what we got up to on the _estate_.”

“Yes, well, there is always that.” Guy stole a slice of toast from Phryne’s stack and began slathering it with butter as Jack’s breakfast arrived. “So what business brought you to the Windsor? Another grisly murder?”

“Oh, surely not someone at the hotel!” His wife regarded Phryne and Jack with widened eyes. “We would have heard about it, wouldn’t we?”

“No -- no one at the hotel,” Jack said, pausing to clear his throat. He gave a twitching smile that spoke to his continued uneasiness. “Taking a statement from a witness.”

“Speaking of the hotel,” Phryne began slowly, “how is that you two are here? Aunt P said you weren’t due to arrive until tomorrow.”

Guy shrugged. “We changed our booking to the _Ormonde_. Heard she was more accommodating and had seen less damage in the war.” He sipped his tea experimentally, checking temperature and taste. He flinched when he found it still too warm. “Got us in a full week early.”

Isabella batted her eyelashes at the waiter as he arrived with their standing breakfast order -- herbed scrambled eggs on toast. “And we’d heard so many good things about the beds here, of course we had to try them,” she said, knowing she would be overheard and grinning wickedly. The waiter blushed furiously and hurried away.

“‘Bella, you should be _ashamed_ of yourself,” Guy admonished. His expression, however, held very little censure.

“We _have_ been having a grand time. Except for that row you had the other night, and very nearly got us evicted.” The blonde rolled her eyes with frustration. “We would have had no place to go but the estate, and that would have been embarrassing, indeed.”

Phryne furrowed her brow, looking to Guy. “Row? What row?”

Her cousin waved it off. “Nothing of note,” he said. “It was rather odd, though, how it started: I was sitting at the bar after our dinner service, waiting for Isabella to powder her nose. There was this bloke sitting beside me, looking at this photograph. I glanced at it, and I’d swear it was mother and some gent I didn’t recognize.”

Jack exchanged a glance with Phryne, withdrawing the photograph from the pocket of his vest. He held it up for Guy to examine. “Is this the photograph?”

“That’s it exactly!” Guy furrowed his own brow, looking first to Jack, then to his cousin and back again. “But where did the two of you get it?”

The inspector ignored his question, stuffing the photograph back into his pocket. “This ‘bloke’ you got into the row with,” he began, “what did he look like?”

“Shorter, stocky -- built rather like Arthur,” Guy replied. “Bald head. Said his name was Pemberton.”

Phryne leaned forward in her seat. “Guy, this is very important: Mister Pemberton has died and it looks very much like he was poisoned. _Why_ did you argue with him?”

Guy paled visibly. “I-I asked him where he got the photograph,” he answered. “He said that it belonged to a client, and started asking questions -- who was I? Who was in the photograph? Then he had the nerve to get rather _prickly_ when I asked who his client was.”

His cousin grimaced, glancing to Jack. “He was just trying to protect his client.”

“Yes, well, I’m not accustomed to this _detective_ business like you are, Phrynekins,” Guy said. “I felt that, if the chap wanted to ask questions, I was entitled to a few of my own. Especially where mother is concerned.”

“It didn’t devolve into a fist fight, thankfully,” Isabella interjected. “I returned from the ladies’ room as the _maitre d’hotel_ and concierge were busting up the shouting match. This… Mister Pemberton was encouraged to leave, and we retired to our suite for the evening.” She placed her hand against her husband’s forearm. “Took forever to calm darling Guy down.”

Phryne looked to the inspector. “We’ll need to speak with the hotel staff that intervened,” she said.

Jack nodded. “I’ll add it to our list for today.” Turning his wrist, he glanced at his watch. “Speaking of -- we should really get going, Phryne.” He paused, having caught himself. Closing his eyes, a frustrated smile flickered across his lips. He stood and offered her his hand. “We should get going, _Miss Fisher_.”

She regarded him with a smile, slipping her hand in his as she rose. She refused to release it as she turned to Guy and Isabella. “We’ll see you both at Sunday dinner?”

Her cousin stood, looking to her with arched brows. “We?”

There was an impish gleam to her eyes as Phryne grinned. “I do hope Aunt P doesn’t mind.”

“Oh, she’ll mind,” Guy replied. “Me, I wouldn’t miss the entertainment.” With a laugh, he leaned forward and pecked her on the cheek. “Do be careful out there, Phryne.”

Phryne laughed. “Oh, we will be, _darling_ ,” she drawled in her most exaggerated version of received pronunciation, such that it sounded more like “dahling.” She leaned down, kissing Isabella on each cheek as Jack shook hands with Guy. Her wicked grin widened as she straightened and regarded her cousins. “And _you_ enjoy your last evening in these wonderful beds.”

With a wink, she allowed a blushing Jack to escort her from the table.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks to Sassasam and Seldarius for their beta services -- and talking me through a few points as I go along. Any mistakes you see now are my own.

 

Speaking with the hotel staff turned out to be problematic -- the _maitre d’hotel_ and evening concierge would not be on duty for a few hours, nor would the cook and waitstaff who had been on duty during Mister Pemberton’s dinner with Mister Mitchell. Flashing his credentials, Jack was able to collect their home addresses. He would dispatch Collins to take statements from the _maitre d’hotel_ and concierge; because of their direct contact with the food, a few constables could extend invitations to the waitstaff and cook for a discussion back at City South.

As they walked out of the hotel, bellhop burdened with their bags two steps behind them, Phryne arched a brow at him over her dark sunglasses. “They don’t warrant a visit from the detective inspector?” she inquired playfully.

Jack watched as their bags were deposited into the back of his sedan. They didn’t bother with pretense, distracted by the case at hand. “We’ll see what Collins makes of them; test his instincts.” He paused. “Might even make a good detective one day -- if he wants it.”

Phryne gave a lopsided grin over the hood of the motorcar. “But you can’t ever tell him that.”

The inspector’s expression mirrored hers. “Not at all. It’d go straight to his head.”

At this, Miss Fisher gave a chuckle. They both knew it would do nothing of the sort. Confuse him? Maybe, she reasoned, but it would never overinflate his ego. The young man was too smart for that. “And what about Guy? I was rather surprised you were willing to leave things as they were.”

“Guy Stanley is many things but, even after his dust-up with Arthur last year, I’d hardly call him a killer,” Jack replied. “Cad? Maybe. But not likely a killer.” A wry grin twitched across his lips. “It appears I’ll see him at Sunday dinner, anyway.”

Phryne pressed a few folded pound notes into the bellhop’s hand as both a thank you and an attempt to ensure his continued discretion. She then climbed into the car, smirking. “Cad? _Definitely._ ” The concierge closed the door for her. “As for a murderer... you know what he did during the war, don’t you?”

“Not the slightest, though he hardly seems the infantry type.” Jack pulled away from the curb, merging into traffic that would take him back toward City South.

At this, Phryne gave a snort. “Oh, no; definitely not your typical Digger,” she replied. “Intelligence Corps.”

Jack’s brows rose. “ _That_ might warrant a bit more discussion.”

“Why?” she asked, giving a laugh. “Because they have a reputation for being sneaky bastards?”

He cocked his head to the side. “That’s one way to put it.”

“Guy has always had a special relationship with the truth,” Phryne allowed. “Never quite telling an outright lie, he has always managed to maneuver around perception. Apparently it’s a desirable trait in the field.”

“It can be.”

It was Phryne’s turn to raise her brows. She studied his profile intently as he kept his attention focussed on the road ahead. “Speaking from experience, Inspector? You never have elaborated on what, exactly, you did during the war.”

“And I don’t intend to today, Miss Fisher.” He cast her a sidelong glance, his tone and expression softening what might have otherwise been hurtful. “A discussion for another time.”

Her lip curled outward, but her eyes sparkled with a mixture of amusement and affection. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Jack allowed a smile. “I rather expect you will, Miss Fisher.”

Within a few minutes, the two detectives arrived at City South to find morning shift just settling in. Constables Evanston and Fraser disappeared into the back, while Collins was beginning his shift at the front desk. His eyes widened at the sight of them. “Sir! Miss Fisher!”

“Good Morning, Hugh,” Phryne said brightly. She led the way into the inspector’s office, his hand at the small of her back.

The inspector himself nodded a greeting to the constable as they passed. “Collins.”

Hugh grabbed a nearby envelope and followed his senior officer. “Sorry, sir,” he said. “I… wasn’t expecting you so early.”

Seated in her usual place opposite the desk, Phryne watched in barely-concealed amusement as Jack regarded the young constable. “So early?” he echoed. His face was entirely neutral, save for the raised brows.

“Ah, yes, sir. Knowing that you and, ah, Miss Fisher had a witness to track down a-and take a statement from last night a-at the Windsor,” Collins replied. He cleared his throat and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as he adjusted and readjusted his grip on the plain brown envelope. “I suppose it went well? Interviewing the witness, I mean, not -- well -- just -- interviewing the witness.”

A giggle escaped to his right, and the inspector stared daggers at Miss Fisher. “Not helping,” he muttered.

Her grin only widened and she bit her lower lip in a vain attempt to fight it. “Not trying,” she replied.

With a lingering glare at Phryne, Jack turned his attention back to Hugh. “We were able to catch up with Mister Mitchell, yes, Collins,” he said. “Miss Fisher and I will have further opportunity to discuss his possible involvement over dinner this evening.”

“Ah, yes, sir.” If Hugh felt this was unusual, he said nothing. Instead, he offered the envelope to the inspector. “Miss Clark stopped by early this morning,” he said, grateful to move on to case-related details. “She said she had been up half the night, looking through Mister Pemberton’s things, and wanted to be sure we had everything she could find on his current cases.”

Jack opened the envelope, withdrawing a small stack of papers. Laying them on his blotter, he flipped through, giving several sheets a cursory glance as Phryne slid forward in her chair. “I never thought I’d see someone who has worse handwriting than you,” she commented. “The mark of a good policeman?”

“If you say so, Miss Fisher,” the inspector replied, then sighed. “Much as I hate to admit it, it is worse than mine. We might need Miss Williams’ assistance deciphering the hen scratch.”

Hugh cleared his throat. “Actually, sir,” he began, “I was able to work through most of it while I was waiting… well, earlier this morning.”

“And?”

Collins fished his moleskine and pencil from the pouch at his waist, flipping the cover and turning pages until he reached the beginning of his notes. “Mister Pemberton had received information from a Doctor Isaac Riley. According to the notes, he was the chief surgeon and medical advisor for Glenham Vale.”

A frown creased Phryne’s brow as she looked to the constable. “Was his contact information in the file?”

“It was,” Hugh replied. He nodded to indicate the papers on the desk. “Fairly legible on page three. I think Miss Clark must have written it.”

Jack flipped to the third page, finding an address scrawled upside down in the top margin. He looked up, his eyes meeting Miss Fisher’s. “Looks like a trip to Beaufort may be in order.”

“It’ll have to be Monday,” Phryne said, “unless you think it an excuse to miss Sunday dinner with Aunt Prudence?”

A grin lit the inspector’s eyes, though his lips did not curve. “Not that lucky, Miss Fisher. Especially after telling Mister and Mrs. Stanley we’d be there. I’d hate to ruin Mister Stanley’s entertainment.”

Her expression mirrored his. “I wonder if he’ll sell tickets?”

“Miss Fisher? Sir? I do have some more information…”

The two detectives shared an embarrassed, rueful smile before turning back to regard Hugh. Jack cleared his throat before trusting himself to speak. “Go ahead, Collins,” he said.

“The second set of case notes details the movements of a husband, followed at the behest of his wife,” Hugh continued. “Husband’s name is Julian Knapp, and his wife’s name is ” -- he paused, flipping a page -- “Maria. Mister Knapp has apparently been stepping out every afternoon, and she requested Mister Pemberton find out why and with whom.”

Phryne frowned. “Do we know if Mister Knapp is aware he’s being watched?”

“Mister Pemberton’s notes don’t indicate one way or the other,” Hugh answered. “Mister Knapp is a solicitor with an office near the magistrate’s court. I’ve attached the address to the sixth and seventh pages, as well as a note detailing his hours.”

Flipping his wrist, the inspector looked at his watch, then to Phryne. “It’s half-nine. Unless he’s at the bar, we should be able to catch him in his office.” His attention shifted to the young constable as he rose from his seat and pulled out his own notebook. “Get on the telephone, Collins, and see if you can find Mister Pemberton’s former supervisor in Sydney. I’d like to speak to him as soon as possible.”

The inspector then ripped the two pages containing home addresses for the staff from the moleskine, passing them to Collins. “See that the cook and two waiters are picked up; I’ll talk to them when I finish with Mister Knapp. And after you find Mister Pemberton’s supervisor, I want you to go over to the Windsor and have a chat with the evening concierge and _maitre d’hotel_. They were witness to an altercation between Mister Pemberton and Miss Fisher’s cousin, Guy Stanley. I want to get their part.”  

Hugh folded the loose pages into the back of his notebook, then scrawled a few notes onto a clean page. “Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?”

“You could always see what’s holding up the coroner’s report,” Phryne suggested, adjusting her hat. She regarded Hugh with a wry grin. “I’m quite certain Doctor Johnson would only scowl more if I asked.”

Hugh allowed a grin of his own. Doctor Johnson was no fan of the lady detective, making sure to point out her unofficial status with each visit. Assurances from the inspector did little to ease his ruffled feathers. “Yes, miss.”

The inspector followed Miss Fisher through the door. He paused just outside. “And Collins?”

“Yes, sir?”

Jack allowed his expression to soften slightly, a smile barely curving his lips. “Nice work.”

“Thank you, sir.” Collins straightened, smoothing his hand down the front of his uniform tunic, watching as the inspector disappeared with a flourish of his topcoat. Maybe it was going to be a good day, after all, he thought.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Sassasam for her beta services on this chapter. Any mistakes you see now are my own.

A moderately tall, well-dressed man with angular features greeted the two detectives as they entered the second floor offices of Julian Knapp, Esquire. He stood behind a heavy, dark wooden desk, a thickly upholstered brown chair behind him. “Ah, good morning,” he said, offering his right hand with a cordial smile. “You must be Mister and Mistress Hardy.”

Jack offered a taut smile but did not shake the man’s hand. “Detective Inspector Robinson, actually,” he said, showing his warrant card. “And this is Miss Fisher, a consultant to the constabulary. We’re looking for Mister Knapp.”

The man straightened, hazel eyes holding them in a wary gaze. He nodded his greeting to them both. “I’m Julian Knapp. What can I do for you, Inspector; Miss Fisher?”

“Are you familiar with a Mister Leslie Pemberton?” Jack returned his credentials to his vest pocket as he spoke, withdrawing his notebook and pen.

“I am. He was investigating a personal matter for my wife.”

Phryne arched a brow. “And are you aware that  _you_ were the personal matter he was investigating?

“I wasn’t… until she told me, two nights ago,” Knapp answered. He grimaced. “She thought I might be cheating on her.”

“Mister Pemberton observed you entering an establishment every afternoon with the same attractive young blonde,” Miss Fisher said. There was a coldly amused note to her voice Jack recognized too well. “Yet you weren’t having an affair?”

Julian Knapp sighed heavily. “I would _never_ be unfaithful to my wife.”

“Mister Pemberton’s surveillance and case notes suggest otherwise.” Jack levelled his gaze on the solicitor, angled jaw clearly set. “Unless you’d care to explain?”

Knapp deflated, shoulders collapsing. He lowered himself into his chair, then looked up at the two detectives, expression bordering on sheepish. “I was taking dance lessons,” he explained.

“Dance lessons.” The inspector paused in his note-taking, looking up to Knapp with a furrow in his brow. “ _Dance lessons_?”

“My wife and I are attending my brother’s wedding in a few months and she dances so well; I have two left feet, I’m afraid. I -- I wanted to surprise her.” A rueful smile turned the corners of his mouth upward. “It worked a little too well.”

“So well she thought you were stepping out on her.” Phryne shook her head. “When did your wife confront you?”

The solicitor rubbed his eyes as he attempted to recall the events of that night. “It was before dinner. Maria met me on the sidewalk outside the studio, fit to be tied,” he said. He gave a slight chuckle at the memory. “I eventually convinced her to come inside. I introduced her to my coach, Miss Carroll, and then we left.” Pausing, he cleared his throat. “We were -- _ahem_ \-- arrested for indecency shortly thereafter.”

Miss Fisher’s brows met her brim. She cast brief a sidelong glance to Jack before turning back to Mister Knapp, amusement plainly writ across her features. “Indecency? Really?”

A hint of pink crept across the solicitor’s high cheekbones. “We… we were _reconciling_ in our car. A passing constable felt we were in plain view, and so we spent a less than enjoyable evening, locked up at Central,” he replied. “Thankfully, the Crown decided not to press charges.”

Jack pointedly ignored the amused expression Phryne passed his way, scribbling in his notebook. “And what time was it when they released you?”

“Not until after morning shift came on -- somewhere around half-nine or so.”

“Thursday morning?”

Knapp nodded. “Now would you mind telling me why I’m answering all these questions? And how it is that you know so much about my wife’s case? Mister Pemberton was said to be very discreet.”

“Mister Pemberton,” Jack began, “passed away on Wednesday night, under questionable circumstances.” He tucked his notebook and pen back into their place in his suitcoat pocket. “Miss Fisher and I are examining those circumstances. Your night at Central just became your alibi.”

“Good Lord!” The solicitor blinked, face paling slightly. “I don’t… What does one say?” He shook his head, as though answering his own question. “My wife will be very upset by this; Mister Pemberton was very kind to her.”

A brief moment of silence followed, the interview coming to a natural conclusion. Before either Jack or Phryne could speak, however, a female voice exclaimed, “And I told you our appointment was for nine o’clock!” The owner of the voice -- a relatively short woman, capped with blonde hair and clad in a House of Fleuri original, charged into the room, stopping short at the sight of the other occupants. Two steps behind her, a man in an immaculately tailored suit halted, fedora in hand.

“Perhaps you meant nine-thirty,” the man responded. His tone was less than friendly.

Clearing his throat, Jack regarded the solicitor with pursed lips. “I think that will do, Mister Knapp. Thank you for your assistance.” He turned, offering a nod of his head to the new arrivals. “Mister and Mistress Hardy.”

Mrs. Hardy gaped, looking after the stranger who greeted her with no small amount of indignation. Mister Hardy merely scowled.

A wry grin curved across Phryne’s lips as she turned to follow the inspector. “Good day, Mister Knapp,” she called over her shoulder. “And good luck. I do believe you’re going to need it.” With a twinkling wave to the Hardys, she disappeared down the staircase.

Jack was waiting by the car by the time she exited the building. He watched her with a slight curve to his lips, eyes alight. Holding her gaze with his, he opened the door for her and she slipped into the passenger seat without pausing. A few seconds later, he slid behind the wheel and turned the ignition. “I hope you wished him luck,” he said with a grin.

“One step ahead of you yet again, Inspector,” Phryne replied. She turned slightly on the bench seat to face him. “And so now…?”

“Now,” Jack began slowly, “I take you home so you can prepare for dinner with a man who may very well be your cousin, while I go back to the station and check into Mister Knapp’s arrest. Then I get to ask questions of the hotel staff -- provided the constables have been able to round them all up.” He tilted his head to the side, making his turn onto the high street. “All very exciting.”

“Hm. Quite.” Phryne allowed her gaze to brush over his profile, a hint of amusement mingled with genuine affection. “Then I’ll see you for dinner?”

The inspector hazarded a sideways glance. Her expression was not unlike it had been that morning, after waking in the gray light of the hotel: tender and intimate. He felt his own gaze soften, corner of his lips twitching. “I can’t exactly go back on my own invitation, can I?” he asked.

Phryne gave a laugh. “It would hardly be appropriate,” she said. She paused, shifting in her seat slightly and adjusting the fit of her gloves. “I thought -- perhaps -- since we’re dining tonight with a man who may very well be my cousin and then braving Sunday dinner with Aunt P, that you might want to...stay...with me...for the remainder of the weekend?

"You can, of course, say no,” she continued into the silence that followed. There was a slight waver to her usually smooth voice -- a waver few people other than himself or possibly Elizabeth MacMillan might recognize. “But it would be a good deal easier, and...”

Jack swallowed. The vulnerability in her voice, the magnitude of the invitation -- he suddenly found it difficult to concentrate on his driving. Maneuvering the sedan to a nearby curb, he tugged the gear into park before turning to face her. He took one of her hands in his. “And?”

Miss Fisher focussed on their joined hands, his thumb sweeping gently over the back of her glove, his warmth seeping through to her skin. She drew a deep breath, looking up at him through her lashes. “And… I’m afraid I’m growing rather accustomed to having you around.”

“In that case, Miss Fisher,” Jack began, his voice sounding husky even to his own ears, “I have to accept your invitation.” He canted his body forward and diminished the gap between them. “I've always heard it’s important to face your fears.”

“It is.” Her eyes flashed, gaze flickering between his eyes and mouth. Suddenly, she pushed forward and sealed her lips over his, instantly deepening the kiss in a way that sent both pulses racing.

A rapping at the glass behind him broke them apart a split second later. Glancing over his shoulder, she saw the navy blue wool and silver buttons of a constabulary uniform; neither a face nor rank were visible. “Oh, hell,” she muttered. Her eyes were apologetic as she swiped at the lipstick smeared across his lips. “It’s not quite your color.”

“I’ll wear the red tie tomorrow,” he teased even as he smoothed his hands over his hair. He paused a moment, silently asking for her appraisal. She nodded and he turned, cranking down the window. “Good morning, Constable.”

“Good morning, sir,” the junior officer said, leaning down now, revealing a young, unfamiliar face beneath the custodian helmet. “I thought I should warn you that this space is reserved for the court clerk, and he’ll be arriving any time now.”

Jack cleared his throat. “Thank you, Constable,” he managed. “We’ll just be on our way.”

“Very good, sir; miss.” The constable brushed a finger against the brim of his helmet before straightening. “Have a good day.”

The two detectives watched him as he crossed the street and disappeared behind the line of automobiles parked along the opposite curb. In the silence that followed, Jack engaged the gears and merged the sedan into traffic, headed for St. Kilda.

“Well,” Phryne said at length, “there’s one thing to be thankful for.”

“And what’s that?”

“We’ve still not been arrested for indecency.”

The inspector gave a dark chuckle and rolled his eyes. “Thank Heavens for small favors, Miss Fisher?”

“Sometimes, Jack,” Phryne said, her hand slipping over his thigh, “it’s the little things in life…” Her gaze flitted down, her tone and her ever-widening grin left no illusions as to her focus. “Or the not-so-little things.”

Jack cleared his throat and stepped on the accelerator. The weekend, it seemed, couldn’t arrive fast enough.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, many thanks to Seldarius and Sassasam for their beta services. Both provided some key feedback to help revise this chapter. Any shortcomings you see now are my own fault. =D
> 
> And to those of you on tumblr -- thank you so much for the kind words and thoughts. They have been very much appreciated over the past week. I'll be home this weekend, so things are slowly returning to some sort of normal.

Hugh Collins entered The Windsor Hotel for the third time in two years, smoothing a hand down his uniform tunic and tucking his helmet under his arm. As with his last visit, the lobby was bustling with activity: Uniformed bellhops escorting carts full of trunks and baggage; front desk staff members welcoming guests as they registered for the evening; still other guests, chatting and milling about as they made their way to afternoon tea. The women reminded him of Miss Fisher, clad in shimmering fabrics that draped over their female form in ways that made him blush. Bright plumes exploded from simple hats, coordinating with their clothing in ways that spoke of their affluence. The men, while not as vibrant, were still immaculately dressed in suits that surely cost more than his constabulary salary. It was enough to make even the most confident man self-conscious.

He straightened as he noted a well-suited man crossing the lobby on an intercept course. A touch shorter than Hugh, his hair, like that of the guests, was without a flaw, slicked back with a great deal of pomade. Dark eyes appraised Hugh, and did not gleam as he offered a taut smile. “Constable,” he said, by way of a greeting. “I'm Jacob Flintridge, the shift manager. How may I assist you?”

Hugh nodded his own greeting. He knew he would have to find a way to be both firm and politically genteel. It was a balance the inspector struck, but with which Hugh admittedly struggled. “Mister Flintridge – Constable Hugh Collins. I'm investigating the death of a former police officer, and hoped to speak with one or two of your evening staff.”

“Ah, yes,” Flintridge said, nodding. He paused. “I was told that Inspector Robinson and Miss Fisher had met with one of our guests to discuss a case.”

“Yes, sir. There were a few points the inspector has asked me to clarify.” The constable withdrew his notebook and pencil from their usual pouch on his belt. “I'm looking for the concierge, Mister Howard Grant and the _maitre d'hotel_ , Mister Edward Salsbery.”

The manager nodded. “Of course; they've just started for the evening,” he said. His gaze darted around the room, carefully observing the reactions of those around them. He gestured toward the far end of the room. “If you'll please make your way to the lounge, I'll see that Mister Grant and Mister Salsbery are sent to you. It should provide more privacy for your discussions.”

Hugh tucked his notebook and pencil away for the moment. “Thank you.” He waited a moment, watching as Flintridge wove his way through the lobby and disappeared into the main dining room. The man walked quickly, each step hurried and with purpose. It wouldn’t do to have a constable snooping around, after all, Hugh thought. Shifting his helmet to his free hand, he shook his head, then made his way to the lounge.

As expected, the thick carpet of the lobby continued, cushioning each step. Freshly-polished brass works gleamed in the daylight, a sharp contrast to the rich, dark wood stain laid to the bar, tables, and panelling. The bartender nodded a greeting from behind the bar as he arranged glasses for the evening rush.

The constable took a seat toward the back of the room, facing the entrance. He then withdrew his notebook and pencil. Inside, he had already noted a few questions he planned to ask, both about Mister Pemberton's dinner, and the altercation with Mister Stanley. He took advantage of his wait to review them and consider more.

True to his word, Flintridge sent both Grant and Salsbery along very quickly. Probably best to get it over with before the evening rush, Hugh thought as he watched the men approach. As with Mister Flintridge, both were well-dressed, capped with well-groomed styles, one a sandy blonde, the other auburn. Neither had any remarkable features, though Hugh noted the auburn-headded gentleman had something of a noble bearing about him.

 Hugh stood and they exchanged basic introductions. A long moment of silence followed. “Oh, ah, if you’ll have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the two open seats opposite him. “I -- _ahem_ \--  know you're going to be busy, so I'll try to make this as quick as possible.”

The two hotel staffers exchanged a glance and seated themselves. Hugh withdrew a smaller print of Mister Pemberton's image from the back of his notebook. “Did either of you see this gentleman dining here on Wednesday evening?”

The _maitre d'hotel_ , Edward Salsbery, took the image and considered it. He nodded after a moment. “Yes,” he replied. “This is Mister Pemberton. He's a frequent dinner companion of one of our guests, Mister Aubrey Mitchell.”

Collins nodded, taking the image and replacing it in his notebook. He noted that Salsbery sat with his shoulders back, right elbow propped outward as his hand rested on his thigh. It was a position he had seen the inspector take several times in the past: Salsbery was relaxed and open to discussion. “Have he and Mister Mitchell ever had a disagreement or argument during their dinners here?”

Salsbery shook his head. “No. If anything, the two got on as thick as thieves,” he said. “It was very interesting to me, as Mister Mitchell is very polished, and Mister Pemberton is a bit – well, rough around the edges.”

“So he stood out among the guests?”

“A bit.” The _maitre d'hotel_ pursed his lips. “He was mannered enough, but he seemed like you – a bit ill-at-ease... if you'll pardon my saying so.”

Collins gave a slight smile at this. “Well, Mister Pemberton was a former police officer, so I suppose it makes sense,” he said. He looked to the concierge, Howard Grant. Unlike his co-worker, Mister Grant sat still and straight, his hands clasped in his lap. Hugh suspected the man would be more reserved with his responses. “I understand that you broke up an argument between Mister Pemberton and one of your guests, a Mister Guy Stanley?”

Mister Grant nodded, a lock of his auburn hair slipping to his forehead, despite the layers of pomade. He smoothed it back as he answered, “I did.”

“And was it a violent altercation?”

At this, Grant shook his head. “It was merely very... heated,” he said. His received pronunciation oddly reminded the constable of Miss Fisher: Almost natural, with the slight hints of his Australian heritage audible only to those who truly listened. “The conversation seemed to begin rather cordially, at the bar.”

Hugh made a note or two, then looked back to the concierge. “And were you able to hear their discussion?”

“Only the latter half.” Mister Grant furrowed his brow as he attempted to recollect the events of the evening. “Mister Stanley was demanding to know where Mister Pemberton acquired what was apparently an image of his mother with a gentleman he didn't recognize. Mister Pemberton attempted to defuse the situation, but Mister Stanley... he needed a bit further encouragement from myself and the bartender.”

Collins tilted his head to the side. “The bartender?”

“Michael Darby,” Salsbery replied. “Fairly good kid and an excellent ‘tender.”

The constable frowned, making a few more notes. The bartender had not been mentioned by the inspector or Miss Fisher, and it was unlike them to miss a possible witness. Had they known about his involvement? Hugh glanced up at the bar, then asked, “Is Mister Darby on shift this evening?”

“I’m afraid not,” Grant said. “His mother has been ill for a few years and she apparently took a turn for the worst last night. He called off and headed home this afternoon.”

Hugh nodded. Though it was clear neither the inspector nor Miss Fisher thought Mister Stanley a murderer, it was necessary to be thorough; he would at least need Mister Darby's contact information for the report. That meant another discussion with Mister Flintridge, something he was sure neither he nor the manager would look forward to. “And when you and Mister Darby encouraged Mister Stanley to stand down, what happened?”

“His wife returned from powdering her nose, and was then able to coax him into returning to their room.” Grant cleared his throat. “Once they departed, I requested Mister Pemberton cut his evening with us a bit shorter than normal. He agreed and departed after paying his account.”

“Did Mister Pemberton meet or speak with anyone else while he was here?”

“We pride ourselves on our discretion,” the concierge said, lips thinning, “but Mister Pemberton did spend some time at the bar. It's possible he spoke with a few other guests that evening either before or after dinner.”

Hugh nodded. Finding Mister Darby just became something more of a priority, he thought. He regarded the maitre d'hotel. “And you, Mister Salsbery? Did you note Mister Pemberton speaking with anyone before or after dinner?”

Salsbery furrowed his brow. “He did have a passing conversation just as he and Mister Mitchell were about to be seated,” he replied. “I think it was Mister and Mistress Shaw.”

“Shaw?” Collins echoed.

“Harry and Margaret Shaw,” Grant replied. “They travel from Sydney a few weeks each year, apparently on family business.”

“Harry and Margaret Shaw of Sydney.” Hugh murmured the names as he finished the note, then pursed his lips, reviewing the information he had collected. “Did either of you happen to overhear the conversation between Mister Pemberton and the Shaws?”

The _maitre d'hotel_ shook his head. “Sorry, but no. I was too far away, trying to resolve a staffing issue.”

“Well, that should be all for now, gentlemen.” Collins closed his notebook and stood, attempting to stuff them into the pouch on his belt. He missed the pocket and they fell, landing on top of his right shoe. A blush crept across his features as he gathered them and managed to put them away. “Th-Thank you for your cooperation.”

Salsbery and Grant stood as well, both men struggling to maintain composure. “Not a worry, Constable,” Grant said. The two men nodded, bid him farewells, then made their way back toward the lobby. Hugh followed a few paces behind. His attention bounced through the room, seeking out the familiar features of Mister Flintridge. He finally spotted him, speaking to the front desk attendant, beyond which, a well-appointed wall clock announced the late afternoon. He would have to hurry if he wished to meet the inspector before his dinner with Miss Fisher. He sighed. Hopefully, he thought, this visit would be a bit less embarrassing than his breakfast in St. Kilda.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a bit short, but there's more to come soon... I hope. =D
> 
> Once again, many thanks to Sassasam and Seldarius for their beta services.

Questioning the kitchen and wait staff had taken considerably longer than Jack had expected. So, by the time he went home, cleaned up, and packed a bag, it was quickly approaching six o’clock. It was then five before six when he finally bounded up the front steps of 221B The Esplanade, two at a time. He rang the doorbell.

Mister Butler opened the door with a smile. “Ah, Inspector,” he said, moving aside to allow the officer entry. “Good to see you again.”

Giving a quick, taut smile, Jack stepped into the foyer, Mister Butler helping him to shrug out of his coat. The elder man then hung it on the coat rack beside the door. “And you, Mister Butler,” he replied. He then hung his hat on the available hook above his coat. “I take it Miss Fisher is still getting ready for this evening?”

“She is, sir,” Mister Butler replied. His eyes flitted down to the bag now in Jack’s hand. “Shall I take your bag, Inspector?”

Regular visitor though he may have been to the Fisher household, Jack still struggled with the attentiveness of a butler -- or a valet. Or perhaps it was the idea, he thought, that Mister Butler was aware of all that happened in the home, a silent witness to his presence for the weekend. Regardless of the reason, he couldn’t help but still be a bit ill at ease as the man extended his hand to take the bag. “Ah, yes,” Jack said, offering it to him. “Thank you.”

“Not at all, sir.” The head of the household staff smiled warmly. “Can I offer you a cocktail while you wait?”

Jack pursed his lips, considering his response for a long moment. “Perhaps when Miss Fisher finally joins me?” he answered. “I suspect a bit of fortitude may be warranted this evening.”

The butler nodded. “I’ve just the thing,” he said. “I’ll just pop this upstairs and be back shortly. I think I can safely say that you should make yourself at home, Inspector.”

“Th-thank you.” Jack fought the warmth that threatened to creep across his cheeks. He watched briefly as Mister Butler made his way up the stairs, could hear him request entry into Miss Fisher’s suite. Trying very hard not to think about his luggage being taken to Phryne’s bedroom, he cleared his throat and moved into the parlour.

He was still browsing the bookshelves when he heard Phryne descend the stairs to his left. Her wry grin greeted him as he turned and she quickly closed the distance between them. “I was wondering when you’d arrive,” she admitted.

“Some of the staff were less… _cooperative_ than others.” His expression matched hers.

"Really?” Approaching him, Phryne traced a finger along his well-cut jaw, drawing it down his red silk tie. “I can’t imagine anyone not wanting to _cooperate_ with you.”

The innuendo in her voice was unmistakeable and he could feel the warmth radiating between them. He allowed his affection and amusement to light his eyes, feeling a smile tug at the corners of his lips even as his left hand slipped across her hip, seemingly of its own volition. He could remember a time when she fit that description, herself. “I was hardly their type.” 

“Oh?” Phryne chuckled, her own hands slipping inside his suit coat. He could feel her fingers dancing under the hem of his vest. “Too male? Or too...official?”

“Both,” he replied. His right fingers traced a path down her neck and along the collar of her blouse, a rounded v-neck that buttoned down the front. It was considerably less formal than her usual dinner attire but he had no complaints: It was, in fact, quite similar to what she had worn prior to their first night together. “And those that did offer information… it was of very little help.”

She rewarded him with a soft sigh, her gaze warm as her attention flitted to his lips and back. “And you followed up with your colleagues over at Central regarding Mister Knapp?”

“I did. He and his wife were safely locked away in neighboring holding cells until the next morning.” He trailed his fingers back up along the neckline of her blouse, fingertips batting at the gold filigree dangling from her lobes before brushing through her black bob. They shared a wry smile. “I’m hoping Collins has something a little more interesting to report.”

Phryne arched her brows in surprise, hands tucked under the back of his vest as she held him close. “You asked him to report to you here?”

Jack nodded. “I informed him that you and I were dining with Mister Mitchell,”  he explained, “and suggested that, after he stopped to see Miss Williams, he could join our discussion of the case.”

“After he sees Dot?” The female detective grinned up at him. “You’re getting soft, Inspector.”

The inspector returned the grin, his arm slipping around her waist and drawing her against him. “Only recognizing that he might want to greet Miss Williams properly before turning to the business at hand.” His gaze flitted to her lips and back.

Phryne noted the shift in his gaze and her eyes took on a mischievous sparkle. “Does that mean you’d like to greet me properly, then, Inspector?”

“I would, indeed, Miss Fisher.” Bringing his hand to cradle the back of her neck, he lowered his head until their lips met halfway. The gentle pressure of his lips against hers began to stir him, mouths opening as they instinctively deepened the kiss.

She hummed her disappointment as he drew back after several moments. “Hardly anything _proper_ about that greeting, Inspector,” she said. Her voice had dropped an octave, pupils dilated as she looked up at him.

“Probably rather _im_ proper, Miss Fisher,” Jack replied. His own voice was a bit rough around the edges, his body reacting with familiar need at her interest and proximity.  He combed his fingers through her hair once more, arm tightening around her waist.

“A perfect match for my thoughts, then.”

The sound of glass rattling against glass in the entry hall brought them back to reality. Jack allowed his right hand to slip along her arm as they parted, Phryne smoothing her hands over her hair. By the time Mister Butler appeared, she looked mostly presentable. Jack, on the other hand, kept his back to the room as he struggled to regain control of his reactions.

“The inspector suggested that a touch of liquid fortitude might be in order for this evening,” Mister Butler said, placing a tray onto the end table. Two highball glasses stood in the center of the tray, white with the slightest hint of orange and an orange wedge hugging the rim. “I thought perhaps something a bit cooling would be a good start.”

“I think, perhaps, you’re right, Mister B,” Phryne replied. She smiled to the man. “Thank you. And do let us know when Hugh arrives? He’ll likely have some information for the inspector and I.”

Tobias Butler nodded once. “Of course, Miss; Sir.” With that, he bowed out, closing the parlour doors behind him. If there was a slight smile tugging at the corners of his lips, it was surely not noted by the occupants of the room.

Phryne passed Jack his drink, then took a seat on the chaise and sipped from her own glass. The concoction was refreshing and cooling, something sorely needed after their few moments alone. She looked up at him as she savored the intermingling of ginger and citrus, then brought her hand to rest over his on the back of the chaise. Her eyes asked a silent question.

“I’ll be fine,” he replied. He brought her hand up to his lips, pressing a warm kiss against her knuckles as his eyes held hers. “But I fully expect you to elaborate on those improper thoughts later.”

She fluttered her lashes at him. “Count on it, Inspector.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Sassasam and Seldarius for their beta services. Any mistakes you see now are my own!

Dorothy Williams slipped through the back door as Mister Butler returned to the kitchen. “Ah, Dorothy,” he said, moving to check the progress of dinner in the oven. “Did you have a good visit with your sister?”

“It was lovely, Mister B,” she replied. “Thank you.” She removed her gloves by tugging gently on the fingers, then tucked them into her purse. “Has Miss Phryne’s guest arrived yet?”

Mister Butler glanced at the clock. Another few minutes and he would transfer the chicken to rest. “One of them, at least -- she and the inspector are tucked up in the parlour.” He paused, lips pursed. “I might suggest a policy of knocking on any closed doors would be advisable for the duration of the weekend.”

Dot’s rounded cheeks flushed as she recalled her Thursday morning shock, finding bits of the inspector’s suit in various places through the kitchen. “Yes, I think --” She stopped, her brow furrowing. “Duration of the weekend?”

“Yes,” Mister B said. “Given their busy schedule this weekend and -- I’d wager -- their recent change in circumstances, Miss Fisher invited Inspector Robinson to stay for the weekend.”

The young woman’s eyes widened. “Oh.” She lowered her bag to the table. “She’s never really done that before, has she?”

“Invite a companion to stay?” he inquired. Dorothy nodded. “No, it’s a first that I can recall.”

“Then it’s a good thing?”

“As things go, I’d say it’s promising,” Mister Butler replied. He gave Dot a reassuring grin.

A rapping at the back door drew their attention. Constable Hugh Collins waved from the other side of the glass panes and Mister Butler exchanged a glance with Dot. As household staff, professional discretion required any further discussion between the two would have to wait. Mister Butler then waved the young constable in. “Good evening, Hugh!”

Collins removed his helmet then nodded a greeting. “Mister Butler.” His features broke into a smile as he looked to his fiancee. “Dottie.”

Mister Butler looked on the two with no small amount of fatherly affection. “I’ll go notify the inspector and Miss Fisher that you’ve arrived… but do take your time saying hello. I rather expect they will need a few moments, themselves.”

A blush swept across the cheeks of both constable and companion. “Of-of course, Mister Butler,” Hugh managed. He watched with Dot as the kindly man disappeared through the dining room. Turning back to Dot, he smiled again before leaning forward and placing a kiss against her left cheek his right hand coming to rest against her bicep.

Dot felt her heart flutter, a warm rush sweeping through her at his touch, his lips lingering against her cheek for longer than usual. She gave a giddy chuckle as he drew back.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Oh, lovely,” she replied. She cleared swallowed, attempting to gain better control over her fledgling response. “I just got back from tea with Nell.”

“And it went well?”

Dot nodded enthusiastically, her attention diverted to their hands as their fingers intertwined, seemingly of their own accord. “The job at The Windsor has been good for her. She’s even stepping out with one of the doormen. She introduced me. He’s very nice, polite… very different from her Maurie.”

At the memory of Maurie Bourke, a frown flickered across Hugh’s features. “I’m glad to hear she’s doing well,” he said. And he truly was. Nell’s employment at the Imperial Club had been a source of frustration and disappointment for Dottie. He was more than happy to see it lifted, if not for the best reasons -- the death of her fiance, for example.

His attention was drawn from the past by a rush through him as Dot swept her thumb along his. She smiled up at him, unaware of the reaction she was inciting. Such reactions were getting stronger as their relationship grew. He wondered, at this rate, how they would last until setting a date. “And we’re still on for the pictures tonight?” she asked, her voice breaking through the growing haze.

Hugh cleared his throat, readjusting his hold on her hand. “Definitely,” he replied, “though I’ll need to report to the inspector and Miss Fisher before we can go. Is that all right?”

His fiancee’s brow crinkled. “The inspector asked you to report here?”

“He asked me to speak to a couple of witnesses over at the Windsor, while he worked with the hotel staff brought to the station,” Hugh explained. “I got the impression he was” -- here his voice dropped to a whisper -- “ _staying the weekend_.”

Dot glanced over her shoulder, toward the door, then back to Hugh. “That’s what Mr. Butler told me,” she said. “Well, he told me I should be sure to knock on any closed doors for the duration of the weekend.” She shook her head. “I’m happy for them, of course, but…”

“You’re not accustomed to the inspector visiting?”

“Not so much that,” she replied. “He’s here quite often. But circumstances between he and Miss Phryne have _changed_ , and --” She stopped, frowning as she sought the right turn of phrase. Finally giving up, she shook her head, then tilted it to the side, regarding her fiance. “Is it supposed to be that way?”

Hugh blinked. He had been around the inspector and lady detective enough to witness the innuendo traded so often between them; in recent weeks, a few touches here and there had only added to his discomfort level. “What way?”

“Always… touching.” Dot smoothed her hand down the front of his uniform in a way she had seen Miss Phryne brush her own hand down the front of the inspector’s suit. She felt a warm flush creep through her and a knot rise in her throat, even as she looked at Hugh through her own lashes. “As though they can’t get enough of each other.”

The constable licked his lips, pink flooding his own cheeks. He tugged at his collar. “Dottie --” Pausing, he cleared his throat, struggling to keep his response in check. “M-maybe we’ll find out? A-after the w-wedding?”

“Then maybe we should finally set a date?” Her fingers toyed with a silver button about mid-chest, the focus of her attention.

Hugh brought his hand to rest atop hers, stilling her fingers. “Why don’t we talk about that on our walk to the Palais?”

She looked up at him, a smile slowly crossing her features. “Sounds lovely.” Standing a moment, she allowed her gaze to dust over his features with the affection she felt evident. “Why don’t you go ahead and change for our date, and I’ll make you a bit of tea to take in to your meeting with the inspector and Miss Phryne?”

“I’d like that. Thank you, Dottie.” Throwing caution to the wind, he leaned down, brushing his lips against hers in a full kiss. He drew back after a long moment as he recognized his limits for the evening. “I-I’ll be right back.”

Dot watched as her fiance picked up his bag and swept through to the back of the house and the downstairs bath. If that was anything like what Miss Phryne and the inspector were feeling, she thought, she was beginning to understand why knocking was a very important thing this weekend.

And she was beginning to very much look forward to her wedding night.


	18. Chapter 18

By the time Hugh entered the parlour, he found Miss Fisher seated on the chaise, legs crossed, and the inspector leaning casually against the mantle. The only signs anything untoward had been interrupted between his two mentors was the lock of wavy hair that flopped uncharacteristically against the inspector’s forehead and Miss Fisher’s unusual lack of lipstick.

“Ah, Hugh!” Miss Fisher called with a smile. “We’ve been expecting you!”

Collins cleared his throat, the warm cup of tea in his hands soothing his nerves. “Miss Fisher,” he said, then looked to Jack. “Inspector.”

“Collins,” the inspector replied with a perfunctory nod. He smoothed back the lock of hair, almost succeeding in his attempt to appear nonchalant. “The interviews went well?”

“Well enough, sir,” said Hugh. He lowered himself into one of the armchairs indicated by Phryne. “The shift manager, a Jacob Flintridge, directed Mister Grant, the concierge, and Mister Salsbery, the _maitre d’hotel_ to me. They confirmed Mitchell had a good relationship with Mister Pemberton, if a bit unusual -- Mitchell being very polished and the victim, well, not as much.”

At this, the inspector pursed his lips in consideration. “If Pemberton started as a cadet and retired as a constable, it makes sense.”

Phryne passed him a glance. “No finishing school for constables?”

“Not at the academy, and afterward is mostly on the job training. No time for pleasantries, I’m afraid.” His lips didn’t curve, but there was the slightest hint of a smile in his eyes as he looked at her. He turned his attention back to Hugh. “And the disagreement between Stanley and Pemberton?”

Hugh shifted forward in the chair, teacup still in his hands as he regarded his senior officer. Any discomfort was momentarily forgotten as he was drawn into discussion with the two detectives. “The concierge indicated that the discussion between the two actually began fairly quietly. After a few moments, Mister Stanley began demanding to know where Mister Pemberton received the picture of his mother and an unidentified man. Pemberton attempted to talk him down, but he wasn’t having any; the concierge and the bartender had to step in.”

“Bartender?” Miss Fisher regarded Hugh with a furrowed brow. “Younger, with dusty blonde hair?”

Collins nodded. “Michael Darby,” he replied. “According to Mister Salsbery, his mum was very ill, and he’s taken leave to be with family. I’ve put a call in to the local station. The senior constable should contact me in the morning.”

“Provided Darby’s actually gone home,” the female detective frowned.

The inspector frowned as well. “We’ll let the local constabulary check it. If he has flown, we’ll post a wider bulletin. The timing is just a bit too convenient for my liking,” he said. “What about guests other than Mister Mitchell and Mister Stanley? Did Mister Pemberton speak with anyone else?”

“Yes, sir.” Here, Hugh set aside his cup of tea, withdrawing his police notebook from the pocket of his tweed sports jacket. He flipped through the pages, scrawls visible to the detectives as he did so. “According to the concierge, the victim also spoke with Harry and Margaret Shaw of Sydney.”

Miss Fisher blinked. “I’m sorry, Hugh,” she said. “Could you repeat that?”

“Harry and Margaret Shaw of Sydney?” The constable looked warily between his mentors who eyed each other with an odd mix of surprise and concern. He became aware that something significant had just shifted. “I… have their contact information here. They’re still guests at the Windsor.”

Phryne looked up at the inspector. She said nothing, but there was a level apprehension writ across her features Hugh could not recall seeing in her expression before. Her lips thinned and her jaw set.

The inspector grimaced, shaking his head slightly. He drummed two fingers on the mantelpiece, eyes narrowed briefly in thought. He then turned his attention to Hugh. “Did either of our witnesses characterize Pemberton’s interactions with the Shaws?”

Collins regarded the inspector with a slightly furrowed brow. Confused as he was by the silent conversation between the two detectives, he ploughed ahead. “They didn’t, sir, no. But I believe that if it had been a disturbance, they would have mentioned it.”

Jack nodded absently. He looked to Miss Fisher. “So the question becomes --”

“ -- whether or not Mister Pemberton showed the photograph to Mister or Mrs. Shaw,” she continued.

“-- and what their reaction was, if he did,” he said, finishing the thought. He grimaced. “We’ll need to speak with them before we speak with Mrs. Stanley again. If it _is_ the same Harry Shaw, his presence complicates matters.”

Miss Fisher pursed her lips as she indicated her agreement. “More than somewhat.” When she looked back up to the inspector, her expression had shifted to one of mischief, eyes sparkling as she regarded him. “So much for my _best laid_ plans…”

Jack swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing briefly over his Windsor knot before he cleared his throat. The slightest hint of pink seemed to tint his cheekbones as his gaze flitted to Hugh before focussing back on Miss Fisher. “Yes, well, what was it Robbie Burns said? ‘The best laid plans o’ Mice an’ Men, Gang aft agley?’”

“Then I suppose my plans will have to wait until _after_ we’ve dealt with the Shaws.”

Even Hugh couldn’t miss the sultry tone in Miss Fisher’s voice. Clearing his throat, reminding them of his presence, he looked to the inspector and asked, “Is there anything else I can do to help, sir?”

The inspector blinked as he looked back to the constable. “Yes,” he said. “I know tomorrow is your day off, Collins, but I’d appreciate it if you’d check back in with Pemberton’s former supervisor and see if you can get a faster response about his previous cases.” He paused a beat. “Did you get anything from the coroner on the toxicology report?”

“Oh! Yes, sir,” Collins replied. He flipped through his notebook, just past where the notes for the interviews had been. “The report confirms the presence of digitalis, likely mixed with whiskey, and administered after food. Doctor Johnson seemed to think his dinner slowed absorption and prolonged his death.”

“That poor man.” Turning, they found Dorothy standing in the doorframe. “I’ve been reading about digitoxins in some of those books you recommended, Miss,” she explained. “Such a horrible way to die; I couldn’t imagine it being drawn out.”

Extending his hand, Hugh was glad when Dot took it. He gave it a reassuring squeeze as Miss Fisher smiled at them. “Off for the evening, then?” she asked.

Dot returned the smile, nodding. “A new feature at the Palais,” she answered. “Are you sure I can’t be of any help tonight?”

“Quite sure, Dot.” The smile she gave now was a bit taut, Hugh noted, if genuine. “Banish all thoughts of poisons, motives, and suspects; go and have a good time. I’ve little doubt we’ll need your invaluable insight soon enough.”

Collins cleared his throat as he rose and hooked Dot’s hand over his elbow. “Enjoy your, ah, evening, sir; Miss Fisher.”

The inspector swallowed. “Ah, yes, Collins. Thank you.”

The two detectives watched their charges disappear into the dining room. Phryne was the first to break the silence. “Jack, you don’t think --”

“I’m not sure what to think right this instant, Phryne,” he began slowly, “but I’ve never been one much for coincidences.”

The doorbell sounded and they watched as Mister Butler appeared from nowhere, headed for the door. Phryne sighed, giving the inspector a rueful grin. “Brace yourself, Jack. It sounds like coincidence number one just arrived for dinner.”

Any response he attempted was lost as Mister Butler stepped into the parlor. An unfamiliar black coat was draped over his arm, a black fedora in his hand. Aubrey Mitchell stood behind him, waiting to be announced. “Mister Mitchell, Miss; Sir,” he said.

Phryne was on her feet instantly, offering her hand in greeting. “Mister Mitchell,” she said. “So good of you to make it.”

“Miss Fisher,” Mitchell replied. He smiled, shaking her hand. “I could hardly turn down such an intriguing invitation. And please -- call me Aubrey.”

“Then please call me ‘Phryne.’” Her visitor released her hand and she gestured to Jack. “And you remember Inspector Robinson.”

Aubrey extended his hand, offering the inspector a single, firm shake of the hand. “Of course. A pleasure to see you again, Inspector -- this time under better circumstances.”

The inspector appreciated his firm and simple handshake. He found himself liking the man, despite the knowledge he may or may not be a suspect. “Indeed.” He caught a glance from Phryne, one brow finely arched. Knowing what she was suggesting, he shook his head ever so slightly. Like him or not, he was not yet prepared to be on a first name basis with the man -- even if he might be her cousin.

As the dark haired guest nodded, Mister Butler appeared once again in the doorway. “Excuse me, Miss, Sir” -- he paused and offered a flickering smile to include Mitchell -- “but dinner will be ready in five minutes, if you’d like to move into the dining room?”

“Excellent timing, as always, Mister B,” Phryne replied with a chuckle.

Aubrey gave a slight bow, eyes on his hostess and her companion. He gestured toward the dining room, intoning, “After you.”

Never one to shy away from the promise of food, Jack silently acknowledged the gesture with a nod. He then offered Phryne his arm, smile reaching his eyes but not curving his lips. “Shall we, Miss Fisher?”

“So formal, Jack!” The female detective rolled her eyes with a chuckle, hooking her hand in the crook of his elbow. He drew her closer and his hand automatically came to rest over hers. “I know better than to stand between you and dinner,” she teased. She was rewarded with only an amused glare.

Mitchell followed the pair into the dining room, quite sure it was to be an interesting evening.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I am greatly appreciative of the beta support offered by Sassasam and Seldarius. Thank you, ladies, for your input and talking me through things! What you see now is my own offering, revised with their suggestions in mind. Hope you enjoy!

Dinner proved to be entertaining, conversation flowing comfortably and easily between the three, with little focus on either Mitchell’s paternity or the murder investigation. It was not until they adjourned to the parlour for drinks that the topics arose once again.

“You said previously that Les’ death was under suspicious circumstances,” Aubrey began, accepting a tumbler of scotch from Mister Butler. “Could he really have been murdered?”

“I’m afraid so,” Phryne replied. “The coroner’s report seemed to indicate he had been poisoned sometime after dinner.” She sipped her amaretto. “I don’t suppose you know who else he might have spoken to that evening?”

Mitchell shook his head. “I’d been dealing with my solicitors all day and was quite exhausted by the time we finished dinner. We bade each other goodbye and I took myself straight to my suite. I was asleep very quickly.”

“And you” -- Jack paused, clearing his throat -- “you’ve no one to corroborate that?”

“Housekeeping seemed to be preparing the suite next door,” Aubrey replied. “Perhaps they noticed when I returned. Otherwise, I’m afraid I sleep alone.”

The inspector allowed his gaze to flit over Phryne before offering a flickering grin over the rim of his tea cup. “No one to steal your covers, at least,” he offered, then sipped his tea. He pointedly ignored the glare he felt from the woman currently seated beside him on the chaise.

Aubrey noted the glare with some amusement, but said nothing. “No one to steal my covers, no,” he replied, “but no one to provide an alibi, either.” He took a draw from his glass, savoring the smoky sweetness briefly before speaking again. “I don’t suppose you’ve had the opportunity to verify Les’ lead on my case?”

“Jack and I will actually be following up on a new lead in the morning,” Phryne said, “and visiting Glenham Vale on Monday.”

“You _and_ the inspector?” Mitchell furrowed his brow. “The two of you believe my case is somehow linked to his death?”

“It’s too early to say,” Jack replied. He frowned into his tea cup, not looking Aubrey in the eye.

“And we have to explore _all_ the possibilities at this stage,” Phryne continued, “including his previous casework. As a private investigator and former constable, it’s likely he made a number of enemies along the way.”

Aubrey frowned, allowing a swallow of scotch to rest on his palate for a long moment. “I’d rather hope most of them are still rotting in jail.”

“Most of them, maybe,” Jack said. “But there could always be one he bothered for information too many times, or maybe one he knew was guilty but just couldn’t find the evidence -- there’s a lot of possibilities to sort through.” He drained the last of his tea. “We hope to know a bit more by tomorrow evening, after we’ve received information from his former supervisor in Sydney.”

“It sounds as though the two of you have a rather busy weekend ahead of you, so I,” Mitchell commented, “will take that as my cue to depart.” He downed the last of his own drink, placing the empty tumbler onto the side table and rising.

Jack and Phryne followed his lead, rising from their seats on the chaise and escorting him into the foyer. They found Mister Butler waiting, the long black coat open for Mitchell. “Thank you both for hosting a lovely evening,” their guest said, slipping his arms into the sleeves. He adjusted the coat onto his shoulders. “I hope we have occasion to do it again.”

Phryne offered a smile. “I hope so, as well,” she said. “I will be in touch, as soon as I can verify the information Les obtained.”

“I’ll look forward to it.” Aubrey gave a slight smile, now adjusting his fedora atop his head. “And do let me know if there’s anything I can do to assist in the investigation. Les was a good man and a dear friend.”

The fedora cast a shadow over his eyes and nose, highlighting high cheekbones and a rounded, dimpled chin -- features recognized by both detectives as belonging to Prudence Stanley, and echoed in her son, Arthur. Phryne blinked and it was Jack who recovered first. “So we’re learning,” he replied. He extended his hand. “Good night, Mitchell.”

Mitchell shook his hand once, firmly. “Good night, Inspector; Phryne.”

“G-good night, Aubrey,” Phryne managed at last. She closed the door behind him, leaning against it for support even as she looked to Jack. “You saw --”

Jack nodded. “I did.” A wry smile curved his lips, his gaze soft. “It’s not often you’re speechless.”

She gave him a rueful smile. “It’s not often I meet a cousin my aunt thought dead.” She shook her head, chin tilted up, her own cheekbones evident in the glow of the foyer lamps. “I suppose there’s no denying that, is there?”

“Probably not,” the inspector replied, “but we’ll not rush into anything. The last thing either of us wants to do is upset Mrs. Stanley.”

The rueful smile curled into a smirk as Jack took a step closer, his hands coming to rest on her hips. “‘Mrs. Stanley,’ is it?” she asked and he nodded. She raised her brows, surprised by the shift, unconscious though it may have been. “Not ‘Aunt Prudence?’”

“Not if we’re to have any chance of surviving Sunday dinner,” Jack replied, his expression mirroring hers.

Phryne slipped her hands under the lapels of his jacket, palms flat against his chest as her hands slid ever higher, fingers eventually linking at the nape of his neck. “Hmm. True. Fending off innuendo-laden hints from Cousin Guy and Isabella will be trouble enough,” she said. Her expression sobered slightly. “What about Harrison Shaw?”

“If it _is_ the same man,” he began slowly, “then I see no reason to inform Mrs. Stanley. She’s mourned him and moved on. From what I gather, Edward Stanley was a considerable improvement.”

“If it is the same man, Edward Stanley was a bloody _saint_ by comparison.” A low growl intermingled with a sigh as she frowned. Hints of her Collingwood roots peeked through as she continued. “But I agree -- there’s no reason that Aunt P should ever know the bastard still draws air.”

Jack lowered his jaw and looked up at her, brows raised slightly, catching her gaze with his own. Concern was writ across his features, with no hint of admonishment. “You’ve proven yourself quite professional in the past year, but...should I interview Mister and Mistress Shaw on my own?” he asked.

Drawing a deep breath, Phryne shook her head. “No, Jack, you’re right -- I’m nothing if not professional.” She forced a smile. “If you can deal with Guy and Isabella, _I_ can deal with interviewing the Shaws.”

“A tall order, Miss Fisher.”

The smirk returned to her features, eyes alight with mischief as she readjusted her hold and shifted her body against his.“I rather think you’ll _rise_ to the occasion, Inspector,” she replied. “You’ve certainly proven yourself more than capable thus far.”

“I suppose you could say I’ve found inspiration.” He looked at her, right hand rising to tuck her hair behind her ear before his palm came to rest against her cheek. “‘The prize of all-too-precious you.’”

Phryne swallowed back the lump that rose in her throat, even as her heart threatened to burst from her chest. “Quoting sonnets now?” she managed. Her voice came across deep and throaty, heavy with the swirl of emotions she couldn’t -- wouldn’t -- quite sort.

“Antony hardly seems appropriate, and…”

“And?”

“And I suspect we’re not quite ready for _Love’s Labour’s Lost_.”

“And if we were? What would you say, then?”

Jack allowed his gaze to dance over her features, body pressed against hers, thumb dragging lazily over her cheekbone. “But love,” he began, his voice breaking slightly over this last, “first learned in a lady's eyes, lives not alone immured in the brain; but, with the motion of all elements, courses as swift as thought in every power, and gives to every power a double power, above their functions and their offices.”

“Oh, Jack,” Phryne whispered. “My dear, all-too-precious Jack. I --”

Shaking his head, he brought his lips to hers, silencing any additional comment. The kiss was tender and slow, a host of emotions flowing with each gentle nudge and shift; Phryne could feel the warmth and affection radiating through him, through his touch. For once, she thought, he was two steps ahead of her… and waiting for her to catch up. But if his kiss told her anything, it was that he was _there_ \-- and would be for the immediate future.

Fingers carding through the short strands at the base of his neck, Phryne poured every nuance from the unspoken tangle of emotions that swirled within her into their joined lips. Tilting her head, she slipped her tongue along his, igniting the slow burn that had been building over the course of the evening. His body pressed against hers, her back against the door, even as her hands wound their way beneath his jacket, already tugging at his shirt as she attempted to free it from the waistband of his trousers.

She may not be able to say it, she thought, but she could _feel_ it. And she could show him.

A not-so-quiet cough behind them brought them back to their surroundings. Looking over Jack’s shoulder, Phryne found an apologetic Mister Butler standing in the doorframe of the dining room. He directed his gaze to the parlour as the inspector withdrew his hand from inside her blouse -- when had he untucked it?, she wondered -- and stepped aside. She regarded the chief of the household staff with a glazed expression. “Yes, Mister B?”

“I’m terribly sorry to interrupt, Miss; Sir, but Miss Dorothy and Hugh should be returning soon. ” Mister Butler paused, crossing the tiled entry. He diverted his attention to the emptied tumblers, gathering them onto a silver tray. "I thought you might wish to... adjourn to more _private_ surroundings."

Jack held her attention with his gaze, pupils blown, and his chest heaving as much as hers. The errant lock of hair once again flopped across his forehead and he didn’t seem to care -- not in that instant; something between them had shifted once again. “Thank you, Mister Butler,” he said at length, his voice little more than a rumble.

“No problem at all, Sir,” Mister Butler replied, attention still focussed on the glasses carefully balanced on his tray. He cleared his throat. “Good night, Sir; Miss.”

“Good night, Mister B.” Phryne continued watching over Jack’s shoulder as the older gentleman disappeared into the shadows of the dining room. Reaching up, she traced her fingernails through the arc of hair above the inspector’s left ear. “Shall we adjourn, then?”

Not quite trusting his voice, Jack nodded and drew her to him. Though his expression remained neutral, intermingled desire, affection, and awe shone through his eyes. He swallowed, seeing the same reflected back. “Time to elaborate on all those improper thoughts, Miss Fisher?”

The low rumble of his voice sent a thrill through her. “Well _past_ time,” Phryne replied. Threading her fingers through his, she unwound from his hold and led him up the staircase.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so... I went there. Seriously. So many thanks to Seldarius and Sassasam for talking me down when I was freaking out and for the fabulous beta services when all was said and done. Your suggestions made the chapter a lot stronger, and I hope I've done them justice. Any mistakes or shortcomings you find now are of my own doing!
> 
> ::closes eyes and clicks "Post"::
> 
> Happy Phryday! ;)

 

Slivers of early morning sunlight peeking around the seams of heavy drapes roused Jack Robinson from a deep sleep, a soft smile breaking almost immediately across his features. The night had been a cool one, bringing the room temperatures down. Beneath the comforter, however, with the increasingly familiar warmth of Phryne Fisher curled into his side, he found himself quite cosy. It was a feeling, he thought, he could get accustomed to.

Sliding a hand slowly over the arm slung over his chest, he marvelled -- not for the first time -- how smooth the usually hidden areas of her skin were -- torso, shoulder, thigh; how warm she had been against him, especially after their bath the previous night; how responsive she had been under his attentions. Her leg shifted slightly between his own, her fingers dancing over his pectorals as she awoke to his touch, and his own response surprised him: Awake less than five minutes and he could already feel his interest stirring -- well beyond a typical morning predicament.

Sleepy eyes peered up at him from his shoulder, black hair in gorgeous disarray as she allowed her fingers to waltz further beneath the covers. She smiled up at him and her touch ghosted across his manhood. “Good morning, Inspector,” she murmured. A playful gleam lit her eyes. “I trust you slept well?”

“What little sleep I got, Miss Fisher, was quite satisfactory,” he replied. Cradling the back of her head with his hand, he felt her shift upward slightly. Meeting halfway, his lips brushed lightly against hers. “But it seems I had a very demanding bed partner.”

Phryne returned his kiss, offering a smile he felt more than he saw. “If you’re expecting me to apologize, Inspector --”

“Not at all, Miss Fisher.” He bumped her nose with his own, corners of his eyes crinkling in a smile before sealing his lips over hers in a deep kiss. “I thought I’d simply return the favor.”

“By all means,” she said throatily. She instinctively arched her neck, allowing him easier access. His lips trailed kisses down along her tendon even as his left hand, slightly calloused and rough, smoothed up her arm, over her shoulder, and across her back before his fingers tickled her side. He chuckled as she jumped against him, and, as his mouth found hers again, she nipped at his lower lip in response.

His chest rumbled with a moan and his wandering hand found her breast. It was her turn to moan as he first thumbed her nipple, then, with his fingers wandering further south, swiped playfully at the bundle of nerves at her core. She revelled in his touch, sensation rippling through her as her body responded to the stimulation. So little time, she thought, and she was already damp. He had set a new record, it seemed. “Keep that up,” she breathed, “and I’m going to be demanding all over again.”

“I’m rather counting on it.”

A light rapping at the door did little to break the haze descending over them, kisses deepening, hands, fingers, and lips sweeping over wide expanses of skin as they rediscovered each other in the dim morning light. “Miss? I’ve prepared your tea,” came Dot’s voice.

Eased onto her back, Phryne rolled her eyes at the interruption, even as Jack’s lips trailed down her body. The warm caresses left an invisible trail across her stomach, over her hip and inner thigh. As his tongue finally slipped between her folds, an involuntary moan escaped her, fingers tangling in his hair. “Five more minutes, Dot,” she managed, voice strangled.

The inspector looked up, darkened gaze holding hers. “At least ten more, Miss Williams,” he said. He spoke only loud enough to be heard through the door.

“I don’t… I didn’t… Of-of course, Inspector!” came the flustered, muffled response.

“Poor Dot,” Phryne mumbled. Her fingers twirled through his locks, enjoying the soft feel, now that the pomade had worn off.

“Shh,” Jack replied. His lips were hot on her, tongue flicking over a particularly sensitive spot, his long fingers teasing her from within. He grinned as she gasped and bucked slightly. Knowing she was more than ready, he then began to work his way back up, lips, hands, and teeth glancing against her skin, even as she pouted over the loss of contact. The pout disappeared into a gasp, however, as his mouth captured the hardened peak of her right breast, tongue swirling to great effect as his hand mimicked the action on her left.

A hum rumbled through her as he continued his journey, smirk playing across her lips as her fingers continued to rake through his hair. Chest once again meeting chest, he nuzzled her neck and nipped at her jaw before sealing his mouth against hers. Phryne arched instinctively against him, telegraphing her need just as his weight came to rest in the cradle of her hips; his length entered her with ease. Both sighed, revelling in the comfort of the intimate connection.

Keeping his weight on his left arm, he brushed errant strands of black hair from her face with his right hand, tracing her cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. His gaze drifted over her features like a caress, gentle as his touch. A long, silent moment passed between them. “We’ve only got ten minutes,” he said.

“Given that I’d planned to spend all day _here_ , it’ll have to do… for now.” She gave him a wry grin. Tugging his head down, she then captured his lips with her own, bringing her right leg up to his ribs and wrapping the other around his waist. “I suggest we don’t waste it.”

“Far be it from me,” he murmured between kisses, “to ignore the suggestion of a lady.”

He shifted within her, drawing out and thrusting in, the friction intoxicating. She whispered to him as they moved, sometimes little more than a breathy yes against his own lips. Her barely intelligible murmurs and whimpers encouraged him deeper, his free hand blindly brushing, grasping, pinching along her breast and side, even as sweat began to bead on their skin. Her internal muscles contracted and released around him with a pace matched to his own, their bodies finding rhythm as easily as their minds.

“More, Jack,” she breathed, his desire already encouraging him to quicken his pace. Answering her demand and his instinct, he drove into her, the angle of her hips allowing him to bury himself to the hilt with each thrust. Lowering his head to the crook of her neck, he laved then sucked her pulse point as her heart raced.

His own need creeping toward its peak, he felt the flutter of her walls around him, her arms tightening and flailing by turns, hands grasping at his back. Suddenly, she clenched around him, shouting his name as her vision blurred white and sensation flooded her senses. He continued pushing, pulling; watching as she rode the waves of one orgasm into another. The sight, feel, and sound of her beneath him, combined with the tension -- internal, external, and emotional -- was devastating. Release surged through him a split second later, her name a guttural cry, ripped from him by the intensity of the moment.

Several long moments passed before Jack trusted his voice, his throat raw. “I don’t think you need to worry about wasting time,” he rumbled. “We’ve wasted quite enough already.”

Swallowing, Phryne nodded. “We have,” she said. She reached up and raked her fingernails through the thick, wavy hair over his right temple, a sated smile curving her lips. “Just means we have a lot to make up for.”

He returned her smile, tucking her hair behind her ears as best he could. Pressing a tender kiss to her lips, he slowly withdrew from her, expression softening as he heard her sigh. He rolled onto his back and drew her into his side. “I’m looking forward to trying.”

“For now,” she began, shifting so she could look at him, “we have a mystery -- and breakfast -- waiting.”

The inspector smirked. “I seem to have worked up quite an appetite.”

"You _always_ have an appetite.”

“So I’m learning.” His expression sobered. “I don’t know that I’ll ever get enough of you, Phryne. I --”

Her own expression softened, her index finger coming to rest against his lips. “I know, Jack,” she whispered. Her expression clouded, the confusing rush of emotions bubbling to the surface once again. “I-I can’t...”

A smile touched Jack’s eyes, twitching at his lips. He kissed her finger, wrapping his hand around hers and drawing it to his chest. As with last night, a not-insignificant (and rather insecure) portion of him wanted nothing more than to hear confirmation from her lips -- that she had fallen as deeply for him as he for her. Experience taught him better, however: Phryne Fisher communicated best with flamboyant actions. Taking in Jane; bestowing a new taxi on Johnson and Yates; a quietly lavish engagement party for Dot and Hugh, complete with French champagne -- she did nothing by half-measures. He, himself, had spent many an evening, playing draughts, chess, and cards in the cosy warmth of her parlour, over many a tumbler of expensive liquor; had dined in her dining room as a guest, and in her kitchen, as a member of the household. In her darkest moments, she had reached out to him and allowed him to support her. Before anything else, he reasoned, they had sown a friendship both cherished.

Experience informed him, too, that her gentlemen callers were typically _persona non grata_ by breakfast. Yet this morning would they would share their third in a row, even as she shared her boudoir and his suits hung alongside her trousers in the wardrobe -- albeit temporarily. Without the trust and companionship that came before, none of it would have been possible. No, he thought, she may not be able to say the words, but she was doing what she could to show him. It would be enough for now.

Leaning down, she kissed him, pressure and caress of her lips attempting to convey that which she couldn’t quite say. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“So am I.” The inspector drank in the open affection she offered. “I --”

Another rap against the door interrupted the conversation. This one was decidedly firmer than the previous, and was followed by Mister Butler’s voice: “Miss? Inspector? Dorothy suggested I should bring the tray this morning.”

Phryne chuckled. “Time and tides wait for no man… or woman, apparently,” she quipped. With a sigh, she shifted to sit up, drawing the quilt and sheet with her. Closing her arms over them, they provided at least some cover. Beside her, Jack did the same, using the bedhead as a backrest and tugging the quilt up over his torso. She waited until he was settled, then called, “Come in, Mister B!”

Tobias Butler eased the door open, bearing a tray laden with food and drink: A rather large, fluffy omelette, with extra bacon, toast, jams, and juice arranged with napkins and silverware artistically and carefully alongside it. He offered his employer and her guest a wide smile as he deposited the tray between them, just up from the foot of the bed. “I thought perhaps a full breakfast might be in order,” he said.

“More than appreciated, Mister B,” Miss Fisher said, smiling back at him. She leaned forward and picked up a slice of buttered toast in one hand, a glass of orange juice in the other. Taking a bite of the crusty bread, then a sip of the juice, she added, “And would you please apologize to Dot? The inspector and I didn’t mean to startle her.”

“She’ll be all right, Miss,” Mister Butler replied. He moved around the room, drawing back the curtains till sunlight flooded the space. “I don’t believe she was expecting to… interrupt you in the morning.”

Phryne cast a sidelong glance to Jack, grinning wryly over her toast. “Well, perhaps it’s better she learns not everyone waits until Sunday afternoon.”

Jack coughed, looking up to the head of the household staff. He had yet to move toward the breakfast tray, however. “Thank you, Mister Butler.”

Mister B gave half a bow. “Of course, Sir.” He turned to leave, pausing by the door. “And I’ll bring tea and coffee momentarily.”

“That would be lovely, Mister B,” Phryne replied. She looked at Jack, amused by his embarrassment, an impish gleam in her eyes. “Better tuck in, Jack. It’s going to be a very long day, and I suspect you’re going to need all the sustenance you can muster.”

Cautiously, Jack sat forward and reached for one of the juice glasses. He was grateful Mister Butler seemed acclimated -- encouraging, even -- to his presence in the household, offering him the same respect and deference he offered Phryne. Miss Williams, on the other hand… He sighed. Maybe, by the time the weekend was over, he mused, he might be able to look Miss Williams in the eye again.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks once again go out to Seldarius and Sassasam for their beta services. Any mistakes you see now, are my own.

It was just after nine when Phryne pulled the Hispano to a halt before The Windsor, some two hours after breakfast. Completing their morning ablutions took considerably longer than usual, slowed by the reality of sharing facilities. Not that she minded sharing a morning bath, she thought with a smile. It had been slightly less... distracting... than their soak the previous night, but a shared bath was one reality she felt she could become accustomed to, granted the opportunity. Her smile slipped decidedly sideways. And the morning’s distraction had at least made up for the early hour, she reasoned.

Rounding the back of the roadster, she joined Jack on the footpath, lopsided grin curling her lips. The way her eyes sparkled as she looked at him, she knew he could offer a fairly accurate guess as to her thoughts. Ducking his head with a grin, he merely shook his head and offered his arm. If there was a rosy cast to his cheeks, he could blame it on the open carriage of the Hispano.

Phryne hooked her hand around his elbow without a word, the grin widening.  

“G’morning, Miss Fisher!” The uniformed doorman at The Windsor beamed, reaching for the brass handles as the two detectives made their way up the short stairway toward the front entry. “Early start this morning?”

“I’m afraid criminals operate around the clock, Benny, regardless of other considerations,” she replied, returning his smile. “And how are you doing today?”

“Quite well, Miss, thank you,” he answered. He swung the door wide, acknowledging the inspector with a respectful nod. “You should stop in and speak to Nell. She’s on three today and I bet she’d love to see you.”

Phryne nodded. “We’ll do that.” She waved as they stepped into the lobby. Her voice dropped to a whisper as they crossed to the front desk. “I still owe her a proper thank you for her assistance during our stay earlier this week,” she told the inspector with a wink.

A female attendant greeted them. “Good morning, sir; madam,” she said with bright expression. She was clad in a well-tailored suit, her brunette hair was coiffed almost perfectly. “Checking in?”

“Not this time,” Jack said, not bothering to correct her pronouns. He reached into his suitcoat pocket to withdraw his credentials. “Detective Inspector Robinson. I’m looking for two of your guests -- Harry and Margaret Shaw.” The attendant frowned at him as she opened her mouth to speak. Phryne squeezed his arm lightly, and he cleared his throat, adding, “They’re witnesses in a current investigation, and I merely needed to... clarify some information with them.”

The crinkle in the attendant’s brow smoothed and her smile returned. “Of course, Inspector,” she replied. Reaching for the register, she opened the leather cover and flipped several pages. “Mister and Mrs. Shaw are in the Owner’s Suite, room 306.” Her attention flitted to a clock nearby. “But, as it’s just after nine, you might catch them in the restaurant. They usually arrive for breakfast between 9 and 9:30 every morning.”

Cocking his head to the side, Jack forced a smile. He tried not to think about what that attention to their guests meant for his stay at the hotel only two nights previous. “Thank you,” he replied. He shoved his credentials back into his pocket, then gestured toward the dining room. “Shall we, _darling_?”

Phryne smirked. She, too, had obviously picked up on the attendant’s mistaken assumption. Who was she to argue at this point? “Of course, _darling_ ,” she said as they began back across the lobby. Her voice dropped considerably as they walked. “Perhaps we can sate that appetite of yours with a second breakfast.”

“Some might consider it my third,” the inspector murmured. Removing his hat, he cast a sidelong glance at his companion, attempting to judge her reaction.

Miss Fisher blinked, surprise flickering across her features before her mouth curved into a devilish grin. “Fourth, if we include the bath,” she replied, “since you practically devoured me then, too.” Her attention flit around the room briefly as they slipped into the hotel restaurant and, using the hand hooked around his elbow, drew him closer. “Honestly, Jack; I’d no idea you could be such a _rogue_.”

“Just consider it _rising_ to the occasion, Miss Fisher.” The inspector gave his own smirk, then schooled his expression as he caught the attention of the host. He watched, Phryne still at his side, as the uniformed gentleman wove his way through the tables and greeted them at the door. Jack held his credentials at the ready. “We’re looking for Mister and Mistress Shaw.”

The younger man’s eyes widened briefly upon recognizing the credentials and Jack bit back a smile. Social graces may smooth things over, but there was nothing like police identification to open a few doors first. Turning, the younger man glanced around the restaurant, spotting their quarry a second later. “This way, please,” he said.

Falling into step, the two detectives followed behind the host, weaving their way through the room. Sunlight filtered through the domes of stained glass above, the scent of fresh coffee and hot pastries intermingled in the air. It was almost enough to make him hungry again, the inspector thought. Almost.

Harry and Margaret Shaw sat at a corner table, light catching the near side, while they took their place in shadow, along the wall. As expected, they were dressed impeccably -- a finely-woven wool suit in navy for him; a simple but elegant dress in silk and velvet for her, the jewel tones complimenting their silvered hair and fair complexions. They halted their conversation as the host and two detectives approached. “Can we help you?” Mister Shaw asked.

Jack nodded a silent thank you to the host, pausing in his introductions as the younger man hurried off. Beside him, he felt Phryne straighten and her hand tighten on his arm, though she had increased the distance between them to a friendly degree. He once again displayed the booklet identifying him as a servant of the law. “Detective Inspector Robinson,” he said, “and this is Miss Fisher, a private detective consulting on my current investigation. We’d like a word with you regarding Mister Leslie Pemberton.”

“Pemberton?” A frown creased Mrs. Shaw’s finely manicured brow. Her accent was from the American South, soft, with somewhat elongated vowels. “Do you mean _Constable_ Pemberton?”

“Formerly of the New South Wales Police, yes,” the inspector replied. He returned his identification to his interior pocket and placed his hat into the chair before him. Clasping his hands at his waist, he regarded the Shaws. “He was apparently working in a private capacity here in Melbourne.”

“ _Was_ working?” Harry Shaw regarded the inspector with a crease in his own brow. “Has there been a problem?”

“I’m afraid Mister Pemberton died under suspicious circumstances four days ago,” Phryne said. She attempted to keep her tone as neutral as possible. She felt she succeeded. Mostly.

“Heavens!” Mrs. Shaw exclaimed. Her fingers brushed anxiously at the pearls around her neck, eyes wide. “The poor man!”

The inspector arched his brows. “Then you knew him?”

“We were acquainted,” Mr. Shaw replied. Phryne noted that his own accent was less drawling than that of his wife, but still softer than she’d imagined. Then again, she thought, he would have been living in the Antipodes for some time. It was bound to rub off. “He was the responding constable when my father died, some ten years ago. Very kind, conscientious. Our paths seemed to keep crossing.”

Pursing his lips, Jack withdrew his small moleskine and pen from the opposite interior pocket. As he set ink to paper, he kept his elbow bent in such fashion that her fingers curled into the crook, somewhat concealed by the folds of his coat. “Even here at The Windsor?”

Shaw nodded. “A bit of a surprise, let me tell you!” A faint smile traced his lips and he shook his head. “Maggie -- Mrs. Shaw -- spotted him first. When was it, darling? Last Wednesday?”

“It was.” Margaret Shaw gave a smile that seemed, to Phryne, a bit too easy and too wide. “He was just finishing dinner with that other gentleman -- the one who’s been here longer than we have -- Mister Mitchell? Anyway, he said goodbye to him and I said hello. Briefly, of course. We had tickets to the theatre.”

Jack made a few notes to rekindle his memory later, then looked back to the couple. “And what about this past Wednesday? We understand you had occasion to speak to him that evening?” he asked.

“We ran into him in the lounge, after dinner,” Harry Shaw replied. “Made some small talk, but he seemed a bit distracted. We finished our drinks as he struck up a conversation with another gent, and then we excused ourselves.”

Mrs. Shaw cast a glance around, seeing few in the restaurant beyond the staff flowing in and out of the kitchen. “Hotel gossip had it that he got into a tussle with the man he was talking to,” she offered in a lowered tone, “but we missed it.”

The two detectives shared a glance. She recognized that look, she thought. “This other gent,” she began, taking the lead as silently agreed. “Was he a guest at the hotel?”

“Seemed to be,” the silver haired man replied. He pursed his lips. “I’ve seen him at breakfast a time or two, now that I think about it.”

“Wiry, dark hair, slightly receding hairline, and a rather blase expression?” Phryne arched a brow.

Shaw snapped his fingers. “Blase -- yes! That’s the one! And his wife -- noisy, boisterous blonde. Not at all what I expected for a proper Englishwoman.”

Casting a sidelong glance to Jack, she could see him bite his lower lip. Blase and boisterous -- yes, those really were the words to describe her cousin and his wife. Though, if Phryne were being a bit honest, she reflected, ‘proper Englishwoman’ was hardly how she would have described Isabella. Perhaps that was why they got on so well. Aloud, she asked, “Did you notice Mister Pemberton with any… photographs or the like in his hand?”

Mrs. Shaw frowned in recollection. “I think he had _some_ slip of paper in his hands,” she said. “You were closer, dear -- did you see?”

Shaw shifted slightly in his seat, smoothing his hand down the front of his suit jacket. His brow furrowed, as in thought. “It might have been a photograph.”

Reaching once more into an interior pocket, the inspector withdrew the photograph that had been found on Pemberton’s body. He showed it to Shaw. “Is this the same photograph?”

“It _looks_ similar,” the elder man drawled, “but I couldn’t say for sure.”

Phryne took the picture from Jack, making a show of looking first to it, then to Shaw. “The gentleman in the photo looks remarkably like you, Mister Shaw -- similar eyes and that Roman nose of yours. You’re sure you don’t recognize it?”

“Can’t say as I do,” he said. He avoided looking at his wife. “Could be a relative of ours. I had some cousins settle near Melbourne a number of years before my father and I moved to Sydney.”

She knew then that he was lying -- that he knew he was lying to her, to Jack; that he had lied to her aunt. Cold, bitter anger sliced through her and she struggled to maintain a pleasant expression; her grip on Jack’s elbow tightened slightly. “Remarkable how some traits carry through to our cousins,” she said. Her voice, while light, once again betrayed her Collingwood youth, eyes fooling everyone but Jack.

Casting another glance toward him, she noted the muscle in his angled jaw tick as he bit back a retort of his own. He didn’t like being lied to, either. Somehow he managed to affect his usual, almost nonchalant tone. “The woman in the photograph has been identified by another witness as a Miss Prudence…”

He paused, making a bit of a show of flipping back several pages in his notebook. Phryne felt herself tense. “Powell,” she finished for him. “As I recall, her birth record showed her as Prudence Elizabeth Powell.”

Jack cast her a glance, a wince flickering across his features as her grip on his arm tightened further. She cleared her throat slightly and forced herself to relax. Turning his attention back to the Shaws, he asked, “Would Miss Powell be familiar to either of you?”

Mrs. Shaw looked to her husband, a bit puzzled, then back to the inspector. “I’m sorry, no,” she said. “We’re friends, of course, with Mr. Richard Powell of Sydney, but we know of no one in Melbourne of that name.”

Nodding, the inspector closed his pen, tucking it and the notebook back into the pocket from which it emerged. He then snatched his hat up from the chair. “Well, thank you very much for speaking with us. Our apologies for interrupting your breakfast.”

Harrison Shaw offered a smile -- one that didn’t quite reflect in his eyes, Phryne noticed. “Not at all. I hope you find out what happened. He seemed a good man.”

  
“He did seem to be.” Anger roiled just below a very cool exterior as Phryne watched Jack nod a farewell. It was with a taut smile the two detectives turned and strode back toward the lobby. They felt the heavy gaze of the Shaws follow them out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Benny is actually based on Russell, one of the fabulous doormen at The Windsor, though I've obviously extrapolated a bit. He and his co-workers were so very kind, attentive, and helpful during my stay there. I sincerely hope that they find a way to save the grande old dame. Maybe that's why the hotel seems to keep turning up in the story!
> 
> In choosing a maiden name for Prudence -- and Margaret, Phryne's mother, I went digging through a lot of data. Given that marrying Henry Fisher, prior to his inheritance, was a step down, I figured that Prudence and Margaret's family would have been fairly affluent, a respectable fixture in society. This seems to be backed up by the swallow pin that belonged to Phryne's grandmother, as well as Prudence's own finishing school touches, and her marriage to Edward Stanley. In my digging, I stumbled back across the history of Lord Baden-Powell, founder of the Boy Scouts, and a hereditary peer. While the family has had their share of scandal (especially of late), being closely related to B-P at the time would have provided the family with a touch of prestige that I felt would fit with what we know of the back story. So I chose Powell as the surname, supposing that cousins might do well enough.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Sassasam and Seldarius for their beta services. Anything you see now is my own mistake!

Reaching the threshold of the restaurant, Phryne pulled free, wide strides eating up the distance to the elevators. She was pacing the small cage restlessly by the time Jack caught up with her, the attendant looking on nervously. The inspector offered an apologetic smile as he stepped in. “Third floor,” he said.

The attendant nodded and closed the cage before resuming his position by the controls. He studiously avoided eye contact, shying as far away from the lady detective as he could manage.

“That bloody bastard,” she mumbled. She took two steps away, then two steps back. Shaking her head, Phryne looked to Jack. “He sat at his breakfast table, looked us straight in the eye and _lied_ to us -- to _you_ \-- in the middle of an investigation!”

“Phryne --”

“He lied to his wife; he lied to Aunt Prudence,” she continued. She turned, pacing away just as the lift stopped. The horrified attendant opened the door and ducked to the other side, out of the line of fire. Phryne stalked out, silk coat billowing behind in a flutter of color. “It’s unconscionable!”

With another silent apology to the attendant, Jack rushed after her, two long strides closing the distance between them. His hand gently hooked around her upper arm and he tugged. Her momentum whirled her around, finding them face to face.

“We’ll bring him to the station --” Jack paused, taking a deep breath as she levelled a glare at him that suggested futility in the action. “We’ll bring him to the station,” he repeated, “and have another ‘chat’ with him -- and _just him_. If his wife knows nothing of his sordid past, he’s more likely to talk to us if we can separate them.”

Phryne huffed. “He’ll bring his solicitor.”

“Of course he will,” the inspector replied. “He’d be a fool not to. But, so long as he’s not incriminating himself, and so long as his wife’s not around, he _might_  answer our questions.”

She stood silently and offered another skeptical glare. She knew he was right: The two had taken measure of the man and found him lacking. Without his wife present, he was more likely to succumb to their considerable talents for interrogation. Perhaps they could get at least part of the story.

Jack could tell the moment the cloud of anger parted. Her expression shifted from a deep scowl to something more neutral. “We can’t make him pay for what he did to your Aunt Prudence,” he said lowly, “but we can still make him squirm, just a little.”

“So long as by ‘a little’ you actually mean ‘a great deal.’”

He allowed a lopsided grin to twitch across his lips. “I’ve been told I have a gift for understatement.”

“You have a gift for many things,” Miss Fisher replied. The fingers of her free hand came to rest against his lapels, features softening. An alluring mix of gratitude, amusement, and affection gleamed in her eyes as she looked up at him. “Thank you, Jack.”

He was sure his gaze matched hers as he answered, “Always, Phryne.”

“Should I get you two another room?” came a voice behind him. Turning, he found Nell Williams -- the Imperial Club hostess formerly known as “Lola” -- smirking at them, arms folded across her chest. She had traded her evening wear for a more sedate peach dress, protected by a white apron, her blonde locks framing her face in finger waves. “I do have a set of skeleton keys.”

Jack cleared his throat. “We were just --”

“We were just discussing our latest case,” Phryne interjected, finding her voice where he stumbled. She allowed her hands to drop, fingertips trailing down his chest toward his waist before she moved to step around him. Mischief lit her eyes as she regarded the younger woman. “I don’t suppose you’ve checked the Owner’s Suite for service yet… have you?”

Nell’s expression mirrored hers. “I haven’t yet,” she replied. “Too busy making sure the old bird next door got her order in from Georges.” She nodded her head in the direction of the suites, beckoning them to follow as she turned. “But if y’want to chat while I take a peek, you’re more than welcome.”

Jack was two paces behind, jogging to catch up as Miss Fisher fell into step behind Nell. “Phryne, I can’t be a part of an illegal --”

Pausing, Phryne hooked her arm in his before encouraging him to keep up with their guide. “There will be nothing untoward, Jack, I promise.” They hovered behind while Nell unlocked the stained glass door and allowed it to swing open wide. The lady detective shrugged a shoulder. “We’ll merely… thank Nell for her wonderful service… while she does her morning round.”

The inspector gave a resigned sigh, shaking his head. They would be walking a very fine line -- especially if Nell discovered anything that prompted further investigation of the Shaws. His lips were drawn downward as he said, “Don’t let us interfere with your morning round, Miss Williams.”

Nell grinned at the detectives as she entered the room, glancing around. “I trust you had a good stay, earlier this week?” She affected a nonchalant tone, pausing as she did to browse through a small bag left on the entry table.

“It was quite a nice escape from a rather… intrusive… household,” Phryne replied. Dragging her gaze toward the bedroom, she followed it with a nod of her head. “And the bed, of course, was so delightful. I hardly wanted to get up!”

The inspector noted the knowing glance Nell shot his way before leading the way into the bedroom, feeling heat bloom across his cheeks. “I’d imagine that had nothing to do with the company,” the former hostess teased, voice lowered.

“Nothing whatsoever.” Phryne exchanged a wry grin with Nell. Her attention then wandered around the room, eyes flitting from surface to surface. “And do tell the chef I greatly appreciated the sandwiches, disappointed though I was to miss dinner.”

Standing beside Miss Fisher, Jack scanned the room himself. The Shaws, as he rather expected, were somewhat tidy guests. The bed had obviously been slept in, but their robes were draped neatly across the foot; hair brushes, toilet articles, shoes -- all were in their proper place. If there were any incriminating evidence present, he reasoned, it would take more than a cursory glance to find. He was about to mention as much when a small picture frame on the nightstand closest to the door caught their attention.

The two detectives moved simultaneously, Phryne reaching for the photograph. Taken somewhere around the turn of the century, it featured a man and a woman, clad in their wedding finery. “A very familiar Roman nose,” she murmured, frowning as they studied it. “I don’t suppose this is his cousin, too?”

Reaching into his pocket, Jack produced the photograph they had taken from the victim. The men were identical; the women were not. “Did the photographer date it?”

Miss Fisher tilted the photograph, allowing sunlight from the window to shine into the area typically obscured by the shadow of the frame. Small, handwritten white letters were barely visible above the mahogany. “Twenty-three April, Eighteen-Ninety….Five? Six?” she read. “I can’t make it out.”

“And if Mitchell was born --”

“After _this_ ,” Phryne said, cutting him off, “which he was --”

“Then either Mr. Shaw was plotting to commit bigamy or he --”

“Never intended to go through with the marriage to begin with.” Her lips drawn to a thin line, Phryne placed the frame back onto the nightstand with a resounding _clunk_. She scowled. “Neither speaks very highly of his character.”

“What character?”

Nell stood behind them, emerging from the _en suite_ , towels wadded into her arms. “Seems to me that a man willing to commit _bigamy_ or -- worse, proposing a marriage he never intended to go through with -- well, he’s completely _lacking_ in character.” She snorted. “And I thought I saw the ugly side of things working at the club.”

“The ugly side can be everywhere we are,” Jack said. He had certainly seen enough of that, from the trenches to the streets and brothels of Melbourne. There had even been a bust at The Melbourne Club some years previous, as he recalled. He grimaced. “Some places just hide it better.”

Feeling the gentle weight of a hand on his forearm, he looked up. He found Phryne watching him, blue eyes soft as her gaze traced his features. “And sometimes, it’s about what you choose to see,” she said quietly.

“Sometimes,” he added with a rueful smile. Her hand slipped into his and he squeezed it, reflexively, savoring the warmth of her touch. “We should go. I’ll need to get one of the constables to help escort Mr. Shaw to City South for our _discussion_.”

Phryne nodded, looking to Nell. “I know I said it the other night, but --”

The younger Williams sister gave her benefactor a lopsided grin, waving off any attempt to thank her. “Anytime, Miss P. All you’ve gotta do is ask.”

“You’re a Godsend, Nell!” Beaming, she blew a kiss to the blonde. “And keep an eye on the Shaws for us?”

“I think that goes without saying.” Glancing to the clock, Nell rushed them out of the room. “Now off with both of you -- they’ll be back from breakfast soon, and I’d really hate to tell them you snuck into their room for a tryst.”

Hand at the small of Phryne’s back, Jack tossed a glance over his shoulder as they made their way back into the hall. The mischief dancing in Nell's eyes told him she wasn’t bluffing. He was once again struck by the stark differences between two Williams sisters: One, a proper ladies’ maid that couldn’t currently bring herself to look him in the eye; the other, a former "hostess," smirking as she insinuated a bawdy cover story for their investigation. It might take a while, he reflected, to decide which unsettled him the most.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's been a long time coming, and for that, I apologize. August/September is "con season" for me, where I'm working as an exhibitor at a few cons, and then working on my own costuming when at home. DH likes to joke that I disappear for August... he's not far from wrong! More regular updates will resume after DragonCon on Labor Day weekend, here in the US. Thanks for hanging in there, dear readers!
> 
> Many thanks, as always, to Sassasam and Seldarius for their wonderful beta work. They do a wonderful job of pointing out what I did right, and helping me fix what I did not-so-right. What you see now is my interpretation of their advice. =)

City South was considerably more crowded than usual when the two detectives arrived a short time later. Per his request, Harry Shaw had been escorted in for a “discussion,” and sat on the wooden bench by the door, his wife beside him. neither seemed terribly upset but they were very careful not to touch one another. Before them, hat in hand, a short, squat of a man stood, thinning hair greased over to cover the lost ground. Jack pegged him for the family solicitor, knowing he’d confirm soon enough.

To the left, Constable Bowen manned the front desk, scrawling an entry into the duty log. Behind him, clad in a uniform missing his duty stripes, Hugh Collins sat at the desk. He held the telephone receiver to his ear with one hand, base in the other, mouthpiece hovering in just the right location. Both looked up as they entered. “Good morning, sir; ma’am -- I mean, miss,” Bowen said.

Jack removed his fedora, nodding his greetings to the constables. “Bowen; Collins,” he said. He turned to greet their guests. “Mr. and Mrs. Shaw, thank you for coming peaceably.”

The short man, whom Phryne decided reminded her of a rugby ball, complete with pointed head and full middle, extended a card. “Bernard Patrick,” he said. “I’m here to ensure that my clients are respected in this process.”

“Detective Inspector Robinson. I’m sure that the Shaws will be well respected,” Jack began, levelling his gaze at first Patrick, then Harry Shaw, “as soon as we can ensure it will be reciprocated.” He gestured toward his office. “If you’d care to join us in my office, Mister Shaw?”

Patrick took a step forward. “I’m not certain that my clients --”

“It’s all right, Bernie,” Shaw said. He pushed himself to his feet as though a heavy weight sat upon his shoulders. “I’ve nothing to hide from the inspector.” His eyes flitted over Jack’s shoulder, where Phryne stood watching. “Or Miss Fisher.”

“Harry, it’s really not --”

“Harry, listen to Bernie --”

The American businessman held up a hand, effectively silencing his solicitor and his wife. “I’ll call if I need help.” He looked to Jack. “If you’ll lead the way, Inspector?”

Giving a curt nod, Jack looked to Bowen and Collins before heading into his office. Removing his coat, hooking it and his fedora on the rack beside the door, he watched as Phryne gestured for Shaw to follow. When the business man entered the small office, she was only a few paces behind. She took position by the fireplace as Shaw settled in to the chair she usually occupied… when she wasn’t seated on his desk. Jack could already see the tension in her frame and grimaced. He was going to have to tread very carefully -- for her sake, and for the integrity of the case.

He leaned against the edge of his desk. “I’m sure you know why we’ve asked you here.”

Licking his lips, Shaw nodded. The confident air of the morning had been replaced with apparent discomfort. He shifted in his seat.

Jack maintained a steady gaze, pleased that the man was already uncomfortable. “You recognized the photograph,” he said. It was a statement, not a question.

Again, Harry Shaw nodded, the motion smooth but slow. “It was taken in 1897 -- of myself and Prudence Powell. M-my current wife knows very little about her… only that she was the daughter of a business associate.” He paused, clearing his throat. “She… doesn’t know that I was engaged to Miss Powell for a time.”

“According to our findings, you married in 1895,” Phryne began, speaking for the first time since entering the office. Jack recognized the terse note in her voice, could see her shoulders creeping closer to her ears, even as she attempted to relax against the mantle. “Yet this photograph was taken, as you say, in 1897.” Her eyes narrowed. “Remote we may be, Mister Shaw, but bigamy is still a crime -- even in the Antipodes.”

Shaw withdrew a handkerchief from the interior pocket of his suit coat, dabbing the white cloth against the back of his neck. “Maggie… has never been the love of my life,” he began slowly. “We get on, and care about each other, but, from the beginning, it was a political match, rather than a love match. When I arrived here, I met Mr. Powell -- and his family.

“Prue -- ah, _Prudence_ wasn’t beautiful, but she had a mischievous grin that was… catching. She welcomed me, made me feel at home in a time that I was very homesick. At the time, her parents were -- shall we say distracted? -- by her sister’s insistence to step out with a man they considered well beneath her station. I suppose you could say that we used that to our advantage.” The businessman shrugged a shoulder. “At the time, I would have called it love. I might still.”

Phryne pinned him with a narrowed eyes, bright red lips thinning. Her voice was terse, the undertones of disgust unmistakable. She had not, apparently, been moved to sympathy by his words. “But you never had any intention of following through.”

“I wanted to -- thought maybe, being so far away, I could. But with a wife already waiting back home….” Shaw wrung the handkerchief in his hands, swallowing as he struggled with the admission. “Mister Powell, of course, wrote my father with the good news. My father was appalled -- for himself, for Maggie, and even for Prudence. He said nothing to Mr. Powell; instead, he convinced me that staging my death was the best option, saving myself, Prudence, and our families from public shame. Once I arrived safely back home, he wrote to his partner, informing him of my ‘death’, in transit.”

The inspector shifted and settled against the front edge of his desk, regarding their guest with an unwavering expression. When he spoke, it was again a statement, not a question. “Yet you chose to come back some decades later.”

Harry Shaw nodded. “My father wanted someone to manage his interests here. Through his association with the Powells, he knew Prudence had married, had children of her own, but decided it was better -- safer -- if I settled in Sydney. So… that was where Maggie and I made our home.  Father joined us, himself, a few years later.”

“And when your father died, Pemberton responded to the call,” Jack continued. “So when he stumbled across the photo of you and Prudence in one of his cases, he recognized you.”

Again, Shaw nodded. “You can imagine my surprise when, not only did we stumble across him at The Windsor, but he also had this picture -- a part of my history that my wife knows nothing about.” He sighed. “I tried to lie, but he was a good cop; he knew I was lying, so he kept pushing, kept asking questions. I finally told him we’d broken our engagement and I went back to America.”

Phryne gave a derisive snort, and Jack glanced up at her. Her expression clearly spelled out her contempt for the man seated between them. He silently thanked her for refraining from comment. Looking back to their guest, he asked, “Did he mention what case he was working on?”

“No,” Shaw replied. “He said only that he had been hired to find the people in the photograph.”

“So you didn’t know why he was looking for you and Miss Powell?” There was a skeptical note in Phryne’s voice.

The American shook his head. “Still don’t.”

Jack turned his attention to Phryne, raising his eyebrows in silent inquiry. The fire he noted in her blue eyes was tempered with measures of disgust and sadness. She grimaced: She knew she shouldn’t be the one asking about this. So she waved her hand at Shaw, as though offering him up on a platter. The inspector fought back the amusement that threatened his stern expression.

“Were you aware,” he began slowly, “that there was a child born after your ‘death’?”

Shaw blinked, color fading quickly from his cheeks. “What?”

“After your ‘death’ at sea, Miss Powell discovered she was with child.” At the moment, Jack felt the man didn’t deserve the full story, so he chose an abbreviated version to try and draw more information from him. He studied his reactions carefully. “She had a son, who was apparently given up for adoption. Pemberton was hired to locate the man’s family.”

“A son?” His voice was strangled with emotion. “I have a son?”

“That was what Mr. Pemberton suspected,” Phryne chimed in. “He was attempting to verify the information before informing his client.” She paused a beat and Jack noted a shift in her expression to one of a more contemplative nature. “Were you able to give him any information on Prudence -- Miss Powell?”

“I-I knew she remained in Melbourne and had married her friend, Edward Stanley. I told him as much.” Shaw swallowed, the shock of the moment finally beginning to fade. He gave a snort. “Stanley never did like me very much.”

“I can’t _imagine_ why,” Phryne muttered.

Jack tossed her a glare before focusing back on Shaw. “You _willingly_ gave him that information?”

The businessman nodded. “I didn’t see the harm in it. As I said, I’d no idea he was looking for…” He paused, forehead creasing ever so briefly. “I didn’t know it was a paternity case.”

Shifting again, the inspector folded his arms across his chest. His expression darkened. “It had the added benefit of shifting the attention from you,” he said.

“Well, yes… I was afraid Maggie might get curious or overhear our discussion.”

“She stepped away from the bar, leaving you to talk to Pemberton?”

“Maggie started getting one of her sick headaches, so I suggested that she go back to the room, told her I’d be a moment behind,” Shaw replied. “She decided it was a good suggestion. I took the opportunity to talk to Constable -- er, _Mister_ Pemberton.”

Tilting his head to the side, Jack considered the man before him. He pressed further. “Are you familiar with digitalis?”

Shaw frowned. “It’s a medication, isn’t it? I believe my father was on one form or another -- he had a weak heart.”

“It’s also what was used to poison Mr. Pemberton,” Jack said.

The statement hung in the air for a long moment, realization slowly settling over Shaw. “Y-you think _I_ \--?”

“I’m not sure what to think, Mr. Shaw,” the inspector replied. “But I’d say trying to keep your wife from finding out about your fiancee -- that’s a fairly substantial motive.”

“But I -- I couldn’t… There’s no way that I could even think about…” Eyes wide, Harry Shaw shook his head, knuckles white as he gripped the handkerchief still in his hands. “And not Pemberton. I didn’t know him well, but I… He was a decent sort, former constable and all. I would never…”

Jack looked back to Phryne. She shook her head, eyes showing a hint of dark amusement. No, this man likely wasn’t their murderer; he hadn’t enough backbone. Still, it was a good idea to keep him on a shortened leash as he might yet prove useful. “All right, Mister Shaw. That’s all... for the moment,” he said. “Though I’d advise you to stay here in Melbourne until cleared to leave.”

Shaw swallowed. “I… still have business to conduct here, so I’m not in a hurry,” he explained. He rose, shoving the handkerchief into his trouser pockets. He smoothed a hand down his tie, once again drawing himself to his full height. Squaring his shoulders with some effort, he nodded once then crossed to exit.

They watched the door close behind him, listening as both Mrs. Shaw and their solicitor launched into inquiries almost simultaneously. Rolling her eyes, Phryne rounded the chair the man had just vacated and lowered herself into the seat with force. A wince flickered across her features briefly, replaced once again by a scowl. “Shameless, unscrupulous... _reprobate_ ,” she spat. “ _What_ did Aunt Prudence ever see in him?”

Jack dropped his arms, clasping his hands at his waist. “I’d imagine he wasn’t quite this… degenerate… thirty years ago.”

“Possibly not,” Phryne replied. “But he’s now had a lifetime to practice.”

“Practice makes perfect -- or so I’ve heard.” He offered her the barest hint of a smile. “Unfortunately, his lack of fortitude means that we are very likely without a suspect.”

She returned his smile with a rueful one of her own. “Perhaps our trip to Glenham Vale will shed more light onto the subject,” she said.

“Perhaps. But that’s not until Monday.”

“And dinner with Aunt Prudence isn’t until tomorrow.” She looked up to him, expression shifting once again as her mood approached something closer to normal. “I take it you have a… diversion in mind, Inspector?”

His lips twitched despite his best efforts. “Well, we’ll need to talk to Collins first, see what he’s been able to find out, but you look like you could use a quiet afternoon -- a good book; a few of Mister Butler’s excellent cocktails...”

The smile was returning to her eyes. “Good company?”

“I thought that went without saying.” He felt the corners of his eyes crinkle, expression softening as he looked at her.

Her voice was warm, gaze soft as she regarded him. “I think I’d like that.”

Offering his hand, he assisted her to her feet, holding on for a long moment even after she stood, dragging his thumb across the back of her hand. She squeezed his fingers briefly. “Come on,” she said. “The sooner we talk to Hugh, the sooner we can get back to our Saturday.”

Jack gestured toward the door with his other hand. “Lay on, MacDuff.”

Phryne slipped her hand from his. Tossing an amused chuckle over her shoulder as she reached for the doorknob, she led the way out. This time, the inspector was only a half-step behind her.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back at it, though it's a bit of a slog at the moment. I'd hope to do updates once a week... ::shakes magic 8 ball:: "Outlook not so good." We'll see how it goes. 
> 
> Many thanks once again to Sassasam and Seldarius for their assistance. They pointed out a couple of things that I hope I clarified. Any mistakes you find now are my own!

The two detectives emerged from the office to relative quiet, indicating the departure of the Shaws and their solicitor. But the room was not yet devoid of visitors, it seemed. A man of moderate height, broad shoulders, and a cap of auburn hair stood at the desk, speaking to Collins. His feet were planted shoulder width apart, a brown fedora resting on the desktop.

Collins looked over the man’s shoulder as their arrival caught his attention. “Ah, Inspector, Miss Fisher,” he said. “This is Sergeant Pemberton’s former supervisor, Detective Inspector Oliver Kent.”

There was a flickering crease visible in Jack’s brow. It smoothed instantly as Inspector Kent turned, a grin breaking across his features. “Ollie?”

 “Robbo?” Kent replied. A matching grin lightened his features as he extended his hand. The two drew each other in for a back-thumping hug, laughing. “Good Lord, it’s amazing to see you! How long has it been -- ten years?”

“Close on,” Jack said. He shook his head, still shocked by the visitor. He noted the Scottish brogue still lurked behind his received pronunciation, and had been supplemented by distinctly Australian vowels. “I thought you’d gone back to Scotland Yard.”

“Oh, I did -- for a time.” Blue eyes sparkled. “Then I met this young, mesmerizing Australian lass. Somehow convinced her to marry me and we set off for the Antipodes.” He gave a wry grin. “The way you talked, I thought I’d be finding Heaven on Earth.”

Jack’s expression mirrored Kent’s. “Heaven wouldn’t need a constabulary.”

“Bloody right, you are,” the other inspector replied. His gaze flickered to the lady detective, then to the hand that had once again come to rest at the small of her back. “Begging your pardon, of course.”

Clearing his throat, Jack felt caught between the blatant curiosity in his friend’s expression and Phryne’s arched brow. “Miss Fisher, I present Detective Inspector Oliver Kent,” he said, settling on professional introductions. The illusion was likely to be shattered soon, anyway. “Inspector Kent -- Miss Phryne Fisher. She consults on cases here at City South.”

Phryne extended her hand and offered one of her most charming smiles. That, Jack thought, spelled trouble. “A pleasure, Inspector,” she said. “It’s not often I’m privileged to meet someone who served with Jack during the war… Assuming, of course, that’s when you met?”

“It was.” Kent nodded once. “And I’d imagine you wouldn’t -- not down here, anyway. Those of us who didn’t go back to The Yard generally stayed in.”

“Stayed in?”

The innocent note in Phryne's voice was a complete sham, and Jack knew it. She’d found a line of questioning she wanted to pursue, like a dog with a particularly meaty bone. His service, however, was not something he wanted discussed in the middle of City South. “So _you_ were Pemberton’s supervisor?” he said, ensuring he cut Ollie off before he could respond to the previous question.

Furrowing his brow briefly, Kent went with the new direction. “Surprisingly, yes,” he replied. “I received word about the investigation, and the request for information. Been trying to get down here for a few days, but the paperwork seems never ending.” He frowned. “I wanted to come in person. I felt like I owed Les that much.”

“He seemed like a good cop,” Jack commented. He brought his hands to rest on his hips as he regarded the other inspector. “At least, according to the Shaws and Aubrey Mitchell.”

“One of the best -- incorruptible, intelligent; brilliant instincts,” Kent said. “I hated to see him go, but… well, he’d met Abigail, and had a bit of a close call or two in the last months of service. That will redefine your priorities, fast and in a hurry.”

To this, Jack could only nod. His own brushes with death in the field had certainly redefined his priorities, brought him home from the trenches a changed man. Ollie had been alongside for most of them. The unspoken _as you and I both know_ was well understood. Redirecting his thoughts to the case, he asked, “You brought along the case files?”

His friend nodded, indicating a leather valise resting beside his feet. “The ones readily available,” he answered. “There were a few already sent to archives. For those, I’m afraid my own notes will have to do.”

“It’s more than we started with this morning.” He pursed his lips, looking to Phryne. She regarded him with an amused smile and a slight roll of her eyes. Their Saturday plans were about to be derailed again, it seemed, though it was clear she understood. “Actually, Ollie, Miss Fisher and I were about to get some lunch. If you’d care to join us, we could discuss the case? You could decipher that hen scratch you call handwriting.”

Kent regarded Jack with his own amused grin. “You’re one to talk, Robbo. I remember a few field reports of _yours_ the old man had trouble reading,” he said. “And I’d be delighted to join you -- so long as I’m not intruding.”

“Only slightly,” Phryne replied, a smirk crawling across her lips. “You can make it up to me by sharing exceedingly embarrassing stories about dear ‘Robbo’ that I can use for blackmail later.”

Jack allowed a smile to twitch at his lips, his amusement apparent in his eyes. “I’m sure that won’t be the only information you try and persuade out of him with Mister B’s cooking.”

“Mister B’s cooking... and a good whiskey,” the lady detective conceded. She smoothed a finger down the front of his lapel in a display that left him swallowing back his discomfort. Her grin widened. “Worked well enough on you.”

Phryne was still smirking as she turned on her heel and headed for the door. Feeling his cheeks flush, Jack watched her hips sway until she disappeared onto the sidewalk, then cleared his throat and looked up at Kent. His old friend was watching him squirm, silent laughter mingling now with the curiosity in his gaze. “We, old friend, apparently have a _lot_ to catch up on,” Ollie said.

Jack nodded, then chanced a look at the desk. Bowen stood with his back to the discussion while Collins feigned attention to the log book in front of him. Sensing the silence, Hugh looked up. “Out for lunch, sir?” he asked.

“So it seems, Collins,” the inspector replied. “You’re welcome to join us, of course.”

Collins coughed. “Ah, no, sir. Thank you, but I’ll just --”

“You should just get out of here for the afternoon,” Jack said, interrupting, ensuring his tone stayed friendly. “It _is_ your day off, and, now that we have the files and Inspector Kent, I’d say your work is done.” He paused. “For now, anyway.”

At this, Hugh nodded once. “Yes, sir. Thank you. I’ll… see you later, then, sir?”

The inspector straightened, head tilting to the side ever-so slightly. “Possibly, Collins; possibly.” He then looked to Ollie and gestured toward the door. “After you.”

Donning his hat and sweeping up his valise in one gesture, Detective Inspector Kent nodded his goodbye to Collins, then exited the station. As he followed suit, Jack couldn’t help but wonder if he should warn his old friend about the lady detective’s driving habits. His grin slid sideways as he adjusted his fedora. No, he decided, that should _definitely_ be a surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Changed a word or two as my brain has finally cast the role of Ollie... to Damian Lewis. The description "shorter build" isn't going to work for him, at approximately 6' tall. =)


End file.
